


a fever of the mad

by evocates



Series: tempestuous [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: ALL OF THE COMPLEXITIES OF CONSENT, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Basically No One is Entirely Good or Entirely Bad, Breaking rules and then making things worse, Breaking rules to make things better, Class Issues, Competence Porn, Complicated People, Complicated Relationships, Consent Issues, Courtroom Drama, Dark, Disassociation, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual (Mostly) Happy Ending, Everyone Is An Asshole, Everything Hurts, Everything is Complicated, Explicit Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Heavy BDSM, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, In which sometimes even an explicit and overt 'yes' doesn't mean 'yes', Internalized Homophobia, It Depends on the Perspective You're Looking From, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Masochism, Mindfuck, POV Multiple, People in this fic do some really really horrible shit to other people and also themselves, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Sometimes in the Same Line, Sometimes in the Same Scene, Suicidal Thoughts, Terrible BDSM Practices in Myriad Ways, This Fic is Kind of a, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Whipping, Wordcount: Over 300.000, everyone is a woobie, everything is grey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 306,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6540523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January 2, 2016: Elric Sands died of a heart attack after trying out electricity play with his fiancé and Dom, Levi Weeks. March 28, 2016: The case go on trial. Prosecution: District Attorney Thomas Jefferson. Defence: Counsellors Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr. </p><p>In which there is a case where every lawyer involved has a conflict of interests, everyone makes choices based on their psyches and circumstances, and those choices have horrible consequences both on themselves and others.</p><p> <i>I’m the hero of my story. I’m the villain of yours. </i></p><p>(Modern day courtroom drama AU focused on Jefferson, Madison, Hamilton, Burr, and Sally Hemings. Primarily plot, characterisation, and relationship dynamics with BDSM and sex as vehicles. Mixed with explorations on the complexities of consent, class, and LGBT issues. Subtitled “Slow Motion Five-Car Pile-up.” Please note the tags. Further warnings within.)</p><p>  <b>Complete.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a strong defence, you’re the solution

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Like I stated in the summary, I have five main/POV characters in this fic - Hamilton, Burr, Jefferson, Madison, and Sally Hemings - and they all do terrible things, and those things will be depicted as such. I also present those things to be done within the contexts of their psyches and circumstances. They are all villains in other people's stories, and heroes in their own. It’s up to you to decide which character is which. My personal choice was to throw up my hands upon judgment and label them all ‘car wrecks’. (Hence the subtitle.)
> 
> The first two chapters will set up my characterisations of all five mains. **If I manage to discomfit, anger, or trigger you, or make you feel anything that you rather not feel when engaging in fanfic and fandom, _please stop reading immediately._ This applies especially for Sally.** These characterisations are based on the musical with salient bits taken from history. Appearances are hundred percent musical-based. Sally’s characterisation is inspired by Sandra Seaton’s _[From the Diary of Sally Hemings](http://quod.lib.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?cc=mqr;c=mqr;c=mqrarchive;idno=act2080.0040.402;view=text;rgn=main;xc=1;g=mqrg)_ (please read that) and some of Annette Gordon-Reed’s writings.
> 
> BDSM and sex will occur a lot, especially the former. Lots of consent issues both depicted and discussed, as well as class and LGBTA+ issues. And I’m using UK spellings despite it all being set in the US.
> 
> Further warnings will come in chapter headings. Please heed them. Characters, pairings, and warnings will be added to the tags as they appear. This fic is over 300k words long.
> 
>  **Notes:** Dedicated to the wonderful kikibug13, best of betas, best of enablers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levi Weeks has been arrested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **_Book I: plunged in the foaming brine_ **   
> 
> 
> **Warnings:** Last scene: flashbacks about death, unhealthy coping methods.

_Not a soul_  
_But felt a fever of the mad and play'd_  
_Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners_  
_Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,_  
_Then all afire with me: the king's son, Ferdinand,_  
_With hair up-staring,--then like reeds, not hair,--_  
_Was the first man that leap'd; cried, 'Hell is empty_  
_And all the devils are here.'_  
     _The Tempest_ , Act I Scene 2

_January 3, Sunday_

Despite Thomas’s repeated offers for Madison to use the gym in his Sleepy Hollow mansion, the man still liked going to the public health club on Thirty-Ninth Street. Thomas didn’t understand it, but he had long ago accepted Madison’s urge to slum with common New Yorkers to be one of his idiosyncrasies.

He was waiting by the side of his pool now, carefully avoiding the edges so chlorinated water didn’t get all over his silk slacks or leather shoes. His tablet was balanced on his splayed fingertips, and he was casually skimming through a couple of new cases that had just arrived to his office. They were run-of-the-mill things – one about a breaking and entering, the other about unauthorised gun possession – so he was mostly occupied with watching Madison do his laps around the pool. 

Just as he was getting bored, he was spotted. Thomas’s lips curled up into a smile, and he waggled his fingers in greeting when Madison’s head broke out of the water again. He went back to read the cases, mentally assigning them. It was a damned pity that Angelica was still in London for her sabbatical, really – she would’ve liked to take on the gun possession case: the perpetrator was a woman. 

There was the sound of a splash. Thomas looked up just in time to watch as Madison pulled himself out of the pool like James Bond did in that one rather forgettable movie. He was shaking his head hard, running a hand through his short-cropped curls. Water dripped off of him, making his skin gleam like newly-polished ebony. Thomas could see a couple of women double-take as they walked past.

When Madison approached, Thomas held out the towel. He turned his attention back to his tablet. He sent off the two emails that told his minions who would be getting the cases, and slipped the thing back into its cover.

“You didn’t tell me that you were coming over,” Madison said. His voice was a little muffled as he dried his face and hair.

“Didn’t think I needed to.” Thomas drawled. “You’re always here at this time, and your schedule hasn’t changed in years.”

Madison lowered the towel. His eyebrow rose. “What if I had to meet someone right after this and I had no time for you?”

“Then you cancel that appointment,” Thomas said, waving a negligent hand. 

“Because there’s nothing more important in my itinerary than to pay attention to you?”

“Exactly,” Thomas grinned. He kicked out a leg, nudging Madison’s ankle. “You stink of chlorine.” _And you’ll end up getting a cold if you stand here talking to me any longer, heated indoor pool or not_ , he added mentally.

Placing a thankfully-dry hand on his shoulder, Madison snorted. “Yes, yes,” he said. Then he paused, cocking his head to the side as he looked at Thomas.

“You know,” he said, every word slow and deliberate. “It’d be so much less trouble for you if you’d just called me beforehand and asked me to meet you somewhere _after_ I had my usual swim. You’d even save your delicate nostrils.”

“But I wouldn’t get the chance to see you wet and nearly naked,” Thomas said, making very sure that he kept his tone completely casual and grin in place. He deliberately didn’t notice how Madison stilled at his words, too. 

He kicked at his ankle again. “Hurry up and shower. I have something exciting to tell you.”

Madison went. Jefferson looked through his work again, checked the weather reports on New York and Virginia, blazed through a few levels of Angry Birds until he got bored, and was starting up Candy Crush when he heard footsteps.

Without looking at Madison, he switched off his tablet, placed it back into his briefcase, and stood up. 

“Forgot to ask,” Madison said, now properly dressed in a polo shirt and slacks. “Why were you in the office on a Sunday?”

“Same reason why I’m here,” Thomas said. He gave Madison a lopsided smile as he swung his attaché over his shoulder and started heading out of the club, his friend falling into step beside him after a couple of seconds. “Munroe called me about a really fascinating case this morning.”

“Your morning, or my morning?”

“Mine,” Thomas said. When Madison’s eyebrow remained raised, he rolled his eyes. “Five forty-seven am. Long past time when anyone sensible should be awake.”

“Uh huh.” Madison shook his head – he had long ago given up on convincing Thomas that waking up at five am wasn’t something that everyone should do. But Thomas _had_ learned to not call his best friend until seven, and Madison had gotten into the habit of turning the vibration and sound off of his phone whenever he went to sleep.

“What’s this case about?”

Thomas stopped. They were in the middle of the hallway, but he turned around anyway, tossing his bag to Madison so he could spread his arms out around himself.

“Elric Sands, twenty-three, was pronounced dead on arrival at the Mount Sinai St. Luke’s Hospital this morning at four am,” he intoned, imitating a newscaster as best he could. “Cause of death: heart attack. The doctors at the emergency room noted that there were deep burns on his chest, especially around his nipples.”

He took a deep breath and continued in the same voice: “They’re still waiting for the autopsy, but Munroe said that the testimonies from the ambulance crew made it really clear how Sands died. His fiancé, one Levi Weeks, twenty-eight, hooked crocodile clips onto his chest, linked them to batteries, and gave him several electric shocks.” His lips curved into a sharp smirk. “For _stimulation_.”

Madison’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said. His hands curled around Thomas’s briefcase, and he absentmindedly stepped aside to let someone else go past him in the hallway.

“You’re taking the case for yourself, then?”

Thomas threw his head back and laughed. “Anyone else who wants it will have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands,” he said. “I’ve been waiting two years for something interesting to pop up again.”

There were not many controversial legal issues left that Thomas saw to be worthy of his personal attention. The last one he had taken for himself was two years ago: the case of a young woman who reported her employer’s discriminatory hiring practices even though she was in direct violation of the non-disclosure agreement she signed and the benefits she reaped from it. He won that one – against Henry Knox – and did it so well that the media called his closing argument ‘The Declaration of Independence.’ 

“Let’s hope it won’t have to come to that,” Madison murmured. He handed Thomas his briefcase back, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Would’ve been a hell of a clusterfuck,” Thomas said. “Can you imagine the headline? ‘Attempted Murder of District Attorney by Minion for Sake of High-Profile Case’.”

His eyes searched Madison’s dark ones, trying to figure out the reason for that disappointing answer. It wasn’t that he expected Madison to be as excited as he was – Madison was _never_ as excited about anything, and Thomas had long gotten used to that – but there should be something more than just… this.

After a moment, Madison shook his head. He nudged Thomas’s shoulder with his own. “It’ll be nice to see you in the courtroom again,” he said. His lips curved into a small smile. “It’ll be a hell of a show.”

“Too bad that you won’t be getting a front row seat to it,” Thomas said. 

There was no way that Madison would be assigned as the case’s judge, after all; not with Thomas as prosecution.

“Mm,” Madison nodded. “That doesn’t mean I can’t pop in once in a while.” His smile widened. “Just to watch you do your thing.”

Thomas laughed again, ducking his head. There was absolutely nothing strange about the bubbling warmth in his chest: it was completely normal to know that someone you respect could be impressed by you.

“Anyway, I’m going to get lunch,” Thomas said. He bounced a little on his heels. “Want to head back to my place?”

Madison hummed. “I have another idea,” he said. “I’ve heard about this new place that has real Southern food. Want some mac and cheese that’s not Kraft or Hard Rock Café?”

“Do they have good collard greens?”

Raising an eyebrow, Madison snorted. “D’you think I’d’ve asked ta bring ya there if it don’t?”

Thomas laughed again, helplessly delighted at the sudden shift. They had both dampened their Virginian accents for the sake of their jobs, and the sound of it was always like home. 

“You’re paying if it doesn’t turn out to be good,” he said, jerking his head up.

Chuckling, his best friend shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream otherwise,” Madison said, just a little dry and accent back into New York gear.

Nodding, Thomas turned to head back down the hallway. He’d come here with his car, and he saw that Madison’s was parked in the lot too. But that wasn’t a problem – they could take Madison’s car, and Thomas would just call his driver to bring his back to Westchester.

“Hey.”

Thomas turned. He blinked when Madison reached out, fingers brushing through his curls. His breath hitched in his chest, and it took all of his will to not lean forward, or even tilt his head towards the touch.

“You had something in your hair,” Madison said. His voice was so quiet, his eyes so dark. A knot in Thomas’s chest loosened at the explanation. He hadn’t even noticed that it was there. “It has been bothering me for a while.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. His gaze shifted to Madison’s fingers, the way they curled and uncurled, practically twitching. He took a deep breath. Carefully pushed away the thoughts that threatened to encroach.

“Lunch?”

“Yeah,” Madison said. His hands disappeared into his pockets again. “Let’s go.”

***

_January 4, Monday_

The paint on the sign _Knox, Green, and Washington_ was barely dry. The letters looked strange: the spacing was a little too wide, as if the ghost of the _Montgomery_ that had used to be there was still lingering in between. Just like Montgomery’s office still had the placard by the door, even though the insides had been emptied out a couple of weeks back by his wife-now-widow Janet.

Or perhaps that was simply Aaron’s wishful thinking. He pushed away the thoughts of the sign along with the building’s door, and stepped inside.

Even though he was officially under Washington now after Montgomery’s sudden death by stroke, the location of Aaron’s office hadn’t changed; hadn’t been moved down to Washington’s floor – he was still on Montgomery’s. That was fine too, he told himself. Most of the other junior associates under Montgomery were still there.

Besides, it didn’t matter. Given his current record, he had only a couple more years and a dozen more cases before he would be offered a partnership in the firm.

He had barely settled himself into his seat when his door swung open again.

Hamilton stood there. Despite it being a day where he didn’t have a trial, he was dressed in a full suit and a tie that Aaron suspected cost him at least half of his salary for an entire month. 

“The General said,” he started. Then he stopped, and pressed his face against the doorframe as he tried to catch his breath.

“This is a building with a lift,” Aaron pointed out.

Waving a hand, Hamilton shook his head. “The General said that we’re to meet him in his office in ten minutes,” he said. When Aaron blinked at him, he grinned, wide and bright. “We have a new case!”

 _We_. Aaron’s eyes narrowed for a moment. It wasn’t that he had never worked with Hamilton before – he had done that ever since college, because he and Hamilton kept meeting for reasons Aaron could never fathom – but working with him on a trial together was… new. It was especially suspicious that it happened a month right after he was re-assigned to be under Washington’s purview.

Shoving his considerations under his tongue, Aaron nodded at Hamilton. “I’ll see you there, then,” he said. 

“He said _ten minutes_ ,” Hamilton stressed. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”

Aaron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He sighed instead, standing up and grabbing a notebook and a pen from his desk. “Fine,” he said. “But we’re taking the lift.” His eyes narrowed on Hamilton. “And we’re _walking_.”

“Fine,” Hamilton huffed. His shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching slightly. There was sweat plastering his hair to his brow, and a few more strands were all over the place. Aaron sighed.

When they reached Washington’s floor, he grabbed Hamilton’s sleeve before the other man could start tearing towards the largest office there. Hamilton stared at him, confused, and Aaron pointed silently towards the washroom.

“If we’re getting a new case, then you need to look less of a mess,” he said.

“I look fine.”

“You look as if you were nearly late for work and so had to run here all the way from Inwood.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. Aaron stifled the urge to flinch from the suddenly intense gaze. “You know,” Hamilton said slowly. “You’re a year younger than me.”

Aaron rolled his eyes. “I’ll take that into consideration when you start acting like you’re actually thirty instead of still being a college student.”

After a moment, Hamilton huffed. He practically flounced into the washroom. When he was gone, Aaron ran a hand over his head, adjusted his tie, and headed into Washington’s office alone.

“Sir,” he said, and didn’t throw a military salute like he had seen some of the other junior associates – especially Hamilton – do. Then, noticing the other person in the room, he inclined his head towards her as well. “Ma’am.”

“Burr,” Washington greeted. “Where is Hamilton?”

“He will just be a few moments,” Burr said. He closed the door behind him and stood there, hands held behind his back.

“Sit down, then,” Washington waved a hand towards one of the two unoccupied seats opposite him. Burr sat.

“This is Ezrine Weeks,” he introduced. “She’s here to ask us to represent her brother Levi.”

The woman was dressed in a beautifully-cut pantsuit with a blouse that made her dark skin shine even underneath the harsh fluorescent light. Her shoes were sensible black pumps with a metallic-coloured strap above the ankle that hinted towards a particularly unique sense of style. Subtle elegance was writ in the angle of her head as she turned around to face him. Her eyes were bright, narrowed, and Aaron knew in a single second that she was taking her measure of him. He didn’t try to sit straighter – only met her eyes – and her lips curved up into a small smirk before she turned back towards Washington.

“Ms Weeks, this is Aaron Burr,” Washington continued. “He’ll be one of the counsellors taking on your brother’s case if you’re amenable to it.”

Ezrine Weeks’s palm was warm and dry, and her grip strong without threatening to crush Aaron’s bones. It was precisely the kind of handshake that said absolutely nothing about a person except for their ability to calculate a first impression; the same kind of handshake that Aaron had.

“Pleasure,” he murmured.

Before Ezrine could say a word, the door opened again.

“Sir,” Hamilton started, and froze in mid-motion when he realised that Aaron and Washington weren’t the only people in the room. His hair glistened with water, but his usual ponytail was neat again.

“That is Alexander Hamilton,” Washington said. Aaron clinically noted the hint of fond exasperation in his tone.

“Pleasure, ma’am,” Hamilton said. He shook her hand and took his seat on the other side of her before Washington gave him permission. He likely knew that he didn’t really need it.

Aaron folded his hands. He waited.

“Ms Weeks’s brother was arrested two days ago, on Saturday night,” he said. “I have already arranged for his bail and Ms Weeks has already paid for it. Usually, he would be my client, but due to the circumstances of the case, I’d prefer that the two of you to take it instead.” 

Hamilton opened his mouth. But before he could speak, Ezrine said, “George, I think it’ll be easier if you just call me by my first name in front of these two.” Her eyes glanced from Aaron to Hamilton. “If they are going to get my brother out of that ridiculous murder charge, then they’ll deserve to use it anyway.”

“Alright,” Washington said. He picked up the thread of his conversation. “The charge that Levi – Ezrine’s brother – is first-degree murder.”

“What are the details of the case? Why are you not taking it for yourself?” Hamilton jumped in immediately.

“I’m getting to that,” Washington said. He shook his head, amusement clear in the upward twitch of his lips. “Patience, Alexander.”

“Let me tell it,” Ezrine said. She looked from left to right again before she placed the toe of her foot against Washington’s desk, pushing her chair back until she could easily meet both of their eyes.

“Levi had a fiancé. His name was Elric Sands: that’s who my brother is accused of murdering,” she started. “Which is preposterous, because Levi was absolutely besotted with him.” She waved a hand. Aaron took the momentary lull to shelve away her easy use of the past tense with Sands. “What happened was…”

She paused. “Are either of you familiar with the term ‘BDSM’?”

Aaron’s fingers twitched. He fought down a laugh; stifled the urge to catch Hamilton’s gaze from beyond Ezrine’s shoulder. He tried to not wonder if he and Hamilton were being asked to take this case because Washington _knew_.

Instead, he merely nodded. “Yes.”

“Good,” Ezrine said. She pursed her lips. “It makes things easier that I don’t have to explain the entire concept to you two.”

Crossing her legs, she rested her elbows on top of her knee, leaning forward. “Levi was using electricity on Elric as part of a scene.” Aaron fought down a flinch: _are they fucking crazy?_ There were acceptable risks, and then there was simply courting danger for the sake of it.

“Now, I don’t share my brother’s interests,” Ezrine continued, “but there are several things I know about the way he does things. Firstly, he likes to make his equipment himself, so it can’t be an equipment error. Given that he died of a heart attack, I’m guessing that Elric probably had some kind of undiagnosed, pre-existing heart condition that neither of them knew about.”

Slowly, Aaron nodded. “That’s a possibility,” he said carefully.

“That’s the most likely thing to have happened,” Ezrine insisted. Then she subsided, shaking her head. “Anyway, Levi used to study a bit of law, so he knew exactly how to protect himself. Elric’s consent for whatever happened should be written down.”

She leaned back, her eyes fixed upon the three lawyers in the room. “That should make things a lot easier, shouldn’t it?” she asked. It sounded like a challenge.

Aaron shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “There are no legal precedents in a case like this. The only thing that comes close is the Armin Meiwes case more than a dozen years ago.” He held up a hand before anyone could speak – Hamilton was practically vibrating in his seat. “And that’s a very different case. This was an accident, I presume?”

“Of course,” Ezrine said.

Hamilton jumped in. “Plus, there is the concept of _mens rea_.” When Ezrine blinked, looking confused, Hamilton explained. “Whether or not Elric Sands was in the right mind to give consent for something that might not only cause him harm, but might be life-threatening. Whether such consent given can hold up under legal scrutiny. Bodily harm done with mutual consent is legal in New Jersey, of course. But everything is legal in New Jersey.”

Ezrine was looking at the both of them, eyes narrowed and contemplative. Her fingers drummed on top of her knee.

“Well,” she said finally. “That’s how the two of you are going to earn your salaries, right?”

“Indeed,” Washington said before Aaron or Hamilton could speak. He stood up, and held his hand out to Ezrine. “We’ll discuss the case further, and they will give you a look at their proposed strategies in two weeks’ time.” He paused. “When the autopsy reports and such come in, and they had time to study it properly.”

Aaron blinked. The incident happened on Saturday, and there was no autopsy yet. It was only nine-thirty am on Monday morning, and Ezrine had been here for at least a while before he and Hamilton came into the room. 

Despite the woman’s poise, she was clearly very anxious about this. Aaron filed this observation to be considered at a later date. 

More importantly: “An interview with your brother will be most helpful to us,” he said. “When will be the time that is most convenient for the both of you?”

Ezrine met his eyes, considering him for a long moment. “Tomorrow, eleven in the morning,” she said finally. “Give Levi some time to compose himself.”

He nodded, filing away the information. Levi Weeks was distraught; or, well, his sister believed him to be. That would be useful.

“It was good meeting you, ma’am,” Aaron said, extending out his hand to shake. He offered her a small smile as well. “Please rest assured that we’ll do our best to ensure that justice is served.”

“We’ll make sure that your brother is free,” Hamilton said, shaking Ezrine’s hand vigorously. He didn’t seem to realise that he was stepping dangerously; he never did. 

“I’m looking forward to that promise,” Ezrine said. Then, nodding to the three men, she left the room.

Once the door closed behind her and Aaron could not hear her footsteps even if he strained, he whirled on Hamilton. “That,” he said icily, “was a _stupid_ thing to say.”

“What?” Hamilton immediately took offence, like he always did. “It’s clear enough from what she said that her brother is innocent of _first-degree murder_ , Burr. We’ll win this case for sure; what’s the harm of assuring her of that?”

“Perhaps you should remember that your job as a lawyer isn’t just to win cases,” Aaron said, fighting the urge to grit his teeth. “It is to ensure that all of the facts are given to the jury, and that they can make a proper decision.”

Hamilton bristled even further. “Funny that you’re attacking me for making assumptions for the case when you assumed that I would have the time for the interview when you have!” he flung out the words as an accusation.

Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Well, if your schedule is too busy, you can always skip out,” he said, careful to keep his voice even.

“Like hell am I going to let you have that all for yourself,” Hamilton said, taking a step closer, eyes flashing. “That’s not the point. It’s the principle of the thing. It’s you being a hypocrite.”

“I’m following procedure,” Aaron said. Before Hamilton could retort again, he turned towards Washington, pasting a smile on his face. 

“Has there been any news regarding the prosecutor of the case?” he asked.

Washington looked up from where he was busying himself with his phone while Aaron and Hamilton argued. He leaned back on his chair, folding his hands together.

“Nothing has been announced yet,” Washington said carefully. “But the rumours in the DA’s office said that the man is going to take the case himself.”

Aaron blinked. “Jefferson,” he said. “We’ll be going up against Jefferson.”

Thomas Jefferson was someone considered a wunderkind in the legal department. He started his practice in his home state, Virginia, before he moved to New York five years ago for reasons he never confirmed in public. In those five years, he had never lost a case, and became New York’s District Attorney within two years of officially moving into the city.

The general sentiment was that Jefferson could convince a jury that their mothers were all guilty of mass rape and murders with only circumstantial evidence, and they would all believe it.

There was also the problem of the man Jefferson brought with him from Virginia: James Madison, one of the youngest to ever be appointed as a District Court judge. He was on a fast track to Supreme Court and, as far as Aaron had heard, he was personally responsible for at least some of the persuasive power of Jefferson’s speeches. Given that Aaron had met the man himself, he was inclined to believe that to be true.

He let out a breath. This was going to be a hell of a case.

“That’s _great_ ,” Hamilton was saying beside him. His eyes were bright, and he was grinning wide enough to look like a complete maniac. Whatever antagonism he had been directing towards Aaron had been diverted entirely. 

“I’ve been waiting for a chance to put that bastard in his place for _years_.”

Especially since he would have to work with Hamilton. Why couldn’t it have been his _own_ case?

“Well,” Aaron said, because he knew he had to say something. “At least we know that he’s not going to be using black stereotypes in his arguments.” Jefferson had never used that particular rhetoric. Given that he practically flaunted his race with that hair of his, it was unsurprising.

Washington looked at them both for a moment. Then he turned to Aaron.

“Burr, you’re dismissed,” he said. “Hamilton, stay here. I need to talk to you.” 

Aaron nodded. Swallowed down the sudden bile in his throat. Left the room.

*

Alexander watched Burr’s stiff shoulders disappear behind the closing door. What the hell was the man’s problem?

“You wanted to talk to me, sir?” Alexander asked, turning back to Washington.

The older man didn’t speak for long moments. Alexander tried to not fidget – no matter how long he had known him, Washington’s intense scrutiny never failed to dig under his skin.

“Sir?” he asked after ten seconds of silence.

“When I told Ezrine that I won’t take the case because I’m still finishing up all of Montgomery’s,” Washington said, every word slow and deliberate. “She asked for Burr.”

He paused. “She specifically asked for Burr. Only Burr.”

The words were like a punch straight into Alexander’s stomach. “Oh,” he said. “Then why… why was I here, sir?”

Sighing, Washington ran a hand over his hair. “Because I know cases like these,” he said flatly. “It’ll come down less about the facts themselves than how they are being painted by the prosecution and defence. I also know Jefferson.”

There was another significant pause. “Burr is persuasive in court. Good at twisting facts in ways that will help his case. But what you can bring – and I’m hoping you will, Alexander – is the passion.” 

Alexander opened his mouth. But before he could speak, Washington chuckled. “Besides, I’ve always thought that the two of you would make for a very good team.” He folded his hands together. His eyes continued: _Don’t prove me wrong_.

Swallowing, Alexander nodded. He stared down at his hands for a moment before he took a deep breath. “Sir,” he said. “About the partnership…”

Washington snorted. He waved a hand. “You keep your promise to Ezrine,” he said. “And then I’ll consider it. I’ll _really_ consider it.”

Eyes widening, Alexander leaned forward. His hands slammed onto the heavy wood of Washington’s desk. “Levi Weeks is going to get acquitted,” he promised. “No charges whatsoever. I’ll prove his innocence.” _Then you will give me that partnership. You’ll have my name outside of this building_.

“You just wait and see, sir.”

Slowly, Washington’s lips curled up into a very small smile. “I’m looking forward to it.” He reached forward and patted Alexander’s hand.

“Now get to work.”

“Yes, sir!” Alexander threw a military salute, and a grin, and he practically leapt out of the door. He needed to find Burr; needed to talk to him to strategize.

Actually, before that… He was going to find Laurens. The autopsy report was not officially out yet, but Alexander was his best friend. He could get him to tell him what he had already found.

***

_The windows of Thomas’s bedroom in Monticello start from the ceiling and end at the floor. They are always set to turn dark-tinted when he and Martha are sleeping, but the warmth of the sun can’t be kept out so easily._

_Thomas opens his eyes. Like every night he spends in his house, there is a sweetly familiar weight on his chest. Martha lies there, obviously still dead to the world, and Thomas laughs to himself, careful to not make a sound. She would be so angry if he woke her up right now, at a time that she calls ‘ungodly’._

_So he is very, very careful as he nudges her over to sleep on her other side, on top of the mattress instead of his body. She murmurs, wordless and soft, and curls up on her side. Thomas shoves a pillow into her arms; as she buries her face into it, he tugs the covers up to her shoulders._

_Then he swings out of bed. Heading to his study, he checks the temperature, and then the computer connected to the wind vane at the top of his house. It will be a beautiful day today, the air warm with breezes gentle and sweet with spring flowers. He wonders if Martha will want to take a few hours to ride around the farm. Or if she will want to take a walk in the gardens instead. He’ll ask her._

_Later. First, breakfast. He pulls on a pair of pants and heads for the kitchen. The servants haven’t arrived yet – he has told them specifically to come only at seven am whenever his work reached a lull; he doesn’t want their presence in the house to ruin one of his pleasures._

_Humming to himself, he cracks a couple of eggs and gets out some slices of whole-wheat bread. Then he slices the tomatoes and takes the bacon out of the fridge where it had been defrosting throughout the night. While everything is set to fry, he makes a pot of rosebud tea – the buds are picked and dried from Martha’s bushes in the gardens; her favourite._

_Martha is still asleep when he steps back into the bedroom, tray in hand. Her nose twitches, just a little, and she makes a quiet sound as she turns over. The covers slides down, revealing her beautifully smooth skin. Thomas’s heart aches at the sight of her._

_He puts the tray down on the nightstand. Then he leans over his wife, trailing his fingertips over the few curls that have escaped the scarf she always wears when sleeping._

_“Hey,” he murmurs. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”_

_Slowly, she blinks open her eyes. She yawns, stretching her arms up. The covers fall down to her waist, and Thomas can’t help himself – he leans down and presses a kiss on top of her stomach. She giggles, batting at his hair, so he catches her hand and kisses it too._

_“What time is it?” she asks, words slurring._

_Thomas checks the clock on the nightstand. “Six thirteen,” he says, grinning. “Long past time for you to be awake.”_

_“You,” she says, eyes half-lidded, “are absolutely insane.” She pokes his nose to emphasise her point._

_“I made you breakfast,” Thomas points out._

_Her eyes slide to the side. “Mm, so you did,” she says. “It looks great.”_

_She sits up more fully, reaching out with both hands, beckoning with her fingers. “C’mere.”_

_When Thomas leans in, obligingly, she sinks her fingers into his hair. She pulls away his scarf too, letting the curls fall down freely all over his face. Gripping tight onto the strands, she turns her head, and presses their mouths together._

_Then she goes completely still. She drops back down onto the mattress with a_ thump _._

_“Martha?” Thomas blinks. His mouth is still aching from the kiss, but he ignores it. He stares at her. She looks as if she has fallen back asleep. There is still a small smile on her face. He reaches out, and touches her shoulder to try to shake her back awake._

_Her skin is cold as ice._

_Thomas’s hands are shaking. His legs are weak; he drops down to his knees. “Hey,” he says, shaking her just once. “Martha, hey.”_

_She doesn’t move. He falls forward. She is so cold. She still smells of roses._

_His eyes are burning. He knows exactly what this is._

_“Let me wake up,” Thomas chokes out. “Goddammit, let me_ WAKE UP!”

Two twenty-seven am. Outside the window: trees. Beside him: his phone, recording the temperature outside: twenty-six point six degrees Fahrenheit. Far too cold for Virginia, even for winter.

Thomas sat up in bed. He pulled open his nightstand drawer and grabbed the packet of cigarettes he kept there for nights like this. Then he took his phone and went to his study, switching on the ventilator along with the lights.

He lit up a cigarette. He took the bottle of whiskey from his desk and poured himself a glass. The liquid shimmered under the fluorescent light. He knocked it back; it burned down his throat.

It wasn’t going to be enough.

Unlocking his phone, he went down the contacts list without needing to look. He pressed ‘call’.

“Who the hell is this?” a sleepy voice answered. “Do you know what time—”

“Sally.”

She inhaled sharply at the sound of his voice. She was probably trying to hide her reaction, but she didn’t turn away from the phone in time – he could still hear it.

“Mr Jefferson,” she said. So carefully bland. He poured more whiskey into his glass.

“Come over,” he said. “You have thirty minutes.”

“I,” she started. He waited patiently. “Okay. Okay, Mr Jefferson.”

Taking another drag from his cigarette, Thomas pulled out an ashtray from his desk drawer. He flicked the ash onto it.

“Wear the thing I got you last week,” he said. He heard her swallow.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll… I’ll be right over.”

“Don’t be late,” he said, and hung up. He shoved his phone into his pocket, and went back to his bedroom. He pulled on a shirt, and headed up to the roof.

It was bitingly cold. Thomas didn’t care: he wouldn’t get sick from this; he never did. He wasn’t like Martha. He wasn’t like Madison either. They both fell sick so easily.

Carefully, he exorcised Madison from his thoughts. He sat at the edge of the roof, staring up towards the skies. There were no stars in New York. He lit up another cigarette.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said. “Hope you’re not watching me tonight.”

He stayed there, counting seconds and minutes. When his phone beeped, he barely looked at it before pressing the button that told the gates, and then the main door, to open. He lifted the chain he wore above his neck and unhooked it without looking. The chain went into his pocket; the metal band went on the fourth finger of his left hand. Then he walked downstairs.

She was standing there at the entrance hall of the mansion, fighting to get her coat off. When she saw him, she started. He watched as her chest expanded as she took a deep breath.

“Mr Jefferson,” she said. “I’m… I’m here.”

Thomas didn’t move. She should know better by now.

Her eyes met his for a moment. Then she looked down. There was another breath. Her hands trembled as she hung up the coat. He took note of all these and shelved them all away. He would speak to her about them later.

But when she faced him again, she was smiling. There was just a slight difference in the shape of the curve – it could be easily ignored if he tried. She stretched out an arm. Her fingers were steady as she curled them.

“C’mere,” she said.

He took the few steps needed to stand in front of her. His hand brushed over her cheek. 

“Martha,” he breathed, and kissed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ezrine Weeks is a gender-switched version of Ezra Weeks, the rich construction mogul who hired Hamilton and Burr to defend his brother in history. In this fic, she’s played by [Audra MacDonald](http://i.imgur.com/2RcMtBU.jpg). Levi himself is played by [Wallace Smith](http://i.imgur.com/CNeIo2n.jpg), and Levi’s fiancé Elric Sands (gender-switched version of the victim of the historical Levi Weeks case Elma Sands) is played by [Omar Lopez-Cepero](http://i.imgur.com/N7lZjZr.jpg).
> 
> Martha Wayles Jefferson and Sally Hemings are played by the same person. Who that person is I leave up to you, as long as she’s black.


	2. you knock me out, I fall apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quiet privations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: explicitly consensual kink that’s only sexual for the non-POV character. Second scene: implications of a past abusive relationship. Third and last scene: more consent issues than you can shake a stick at. Fourth scene: graphic descriptions of a corpse after autopsy and vague descriptions of death flashbacks. More details in the chapter’s end notes.

_January 4, Monday_

The outside of the Debauchee was unassuming, practically plain, blending in with the other short office buildings on Wall Street. The inside was a completely different matter: dark hardwood crisscrossing with plastic, mosaic artworks covering the ceiling, and painted walls that shimmered with the light coming from the floors. If one didn’t look closely, the place would look just like any other high-end bar. But someone more observant would realise that the mosaics overhead were strategically designed to allow the drilled-in hooks to blend in, and the murals on the walls were depicting sex scenes.

Most of the time, James didn’t even bother looking at the décor. The owner would be insulted, he knew, but neither of them was what he was here for. 

Now he was sitting at the bar, one elbow on the marble countertop. There were three strips of leather in his hands – button-soft, well worn-in – that he was slowly and carefully braiding. There were already five finished braids that were hanging off of his shoulder. He finished this one, tying a flat knot at the end of it, before he draped it over there too.

Finally, he turned his eyes down. There was a completely naked young boy kneeling beside his bar stool, holding out his hands to provide a stand for James’s half-empty glass of cognac. He had been very still for the past – James checked his watch – hour and fifteen minutes. James smiled at him. He took the glass, watched with approval as the boy’s hands didn’t move, and sipped at it. When he was done for now, he placed it back onto those hands, then slid his fingers over the boy’s thick, dark curls.

The boy’s name was Ben; or, at least, it was the name that he’d signed on the contract that was in James’s jacket pocket. Most people who came to the Debauchee didn’t give their real names – there might be an honour code that stopped the more powerful ones from snitching on each other, but there were others, too, who would have no such qualms because no one would care about their appetites; they had far less to lose.

“Stand up,” James said. When the boy did, he directed him to put the glass down on the bar. Then he hooked his fingers into the circle on the boy’s collar, and tugged him along.

James took him to his favourite spot in the play area – in the corner, where the lights were dim and softly filtered. Less intimate than a private room, far more private than further out. He sunk his fingers into the boy’s hair again, rubbing the fine strands between his fingers.

“You can speak,” he said. “But you must stay still.”

Ben nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

Curving his lips up into a small, benevolent smile, James stroked the back of his hand over his cheek, then down, carefully avoiding the erect nipples to splay his hand out over his stomach. Ben’s chest heaved, and he let out a quiet sound. He didn’t move.

“Good boy,” James murmured. “You’re doing very well.”

A full-body twitch went through him. He didn’t duck his head down; didn’t even shift his gaze away. “Thank you, sir,” he said. His teeth sunk, lightly, over his lip.

James cupped his face, rubbing at that lip. It was so full, so plush. The boy’s skin was a beautiful dark gold underneath these lights, his long lashes cast shadows over his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes were a very, very familiar shade. James knew exactly who he looked like; knew exactly his own reasons for choosing this one out of the few who had offered themselves to him.

Then he nodded. He took one of the braids from his shoulder. He heard Ben’s sharp inhale and pondered for a moment before ignoring it. He didn’t warn Ben that they were starting – they had already begun hours ago, when Ben first came to him and went down on his knees. This was simply the most elaborate part.

Looping the handmade rope around Ben’s thin chest, James knotted it before he began to wind it around the boy’s waist and hips in a pattern that would look like a blossoming flower once he was done. Not yet, though: he looked up at the hook, then back down to the boy. He handed him the longest braid – over ten feet length of leather.

“Go,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Do it for me.”

Ben almost nodded. After a moment, he remembered himself, and said, “Yes, sir. May I move for that?”

That gained him another smile. “Yes,” he said. “But make every single one count.”

Walking over to the wall, James folded his arms. He watched as Ben brought over a ladder, placing it beneath the hook of the ceiling before beginning to climb. His every step was a little awkward – he was being careful to not brush against his own hard prick – and when he reached the top, he looped the braid over the hook three times – oh, _good_ boy, James didn’t even need to tell him that – before he climbed back down and replaced the ladder where it had been.

When he came back, James didn’t deny him any longer. He picked Ben up with both hands underneath his body before he shifted his weight to only one. Even if working out hadn’t improved his immune system, it still gave him the ability to do things like these.

Looping the free-hanging ends of the leather braid over the one tied over Ben’s body, he made six different knots: one at each shoulder, one at the centre of the torso, and one at the base of the spine, and two at the ankles. Ben’s legs were bent, thighs straining and feet practically flat over his ass, to make the latter possible.

James stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Ben’s eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing unsteady. His cock was bright red, surely searing hot to the touch, and there was precome gathered at the head. James considered it for a moment before he shook his head to himself: not yet.

Instead, he cupped Ben’s face. “Tell me how you feel, boy,” he said, keeping his voice even. It wasn’t difficult: James wasn’t hard; there wasn’t even a hint of arousal in his blood.

“I...” Ben’s voice hitched. He lowered his head, pressing his chin into his chest. James jerked it back up until the boy’s eyes met his.

“It’s not enough, sir,” he said. “I’m standing at the edge. I’m looking over the cliff. It’s beautiful, sir. It’s beautiful. But it’s not enough. It’s not—”

“Shhh,” James shushed him. He stroked over those rich curls again, and brushed his thumb over that plush, red mouth. So pretty. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you go over the edge, alright?”

Ben nodded so hard that his entire body began to bounce on the leather. “Yes, sir,” he said fervently. “Thank you, sir.”

“Good boy,” James said again, because he really did deserve it. He patted the curls before he took the third leather braid from where it was wound around his shoulders. He began to wind it around Ben’s body, still focused mostly on his chest. The flower appeared with the fourth piece of leather. Ben had gone completely quiet, his breathing deep and even. His eyes were half-glazed over, but he still opened his mouth to James’s thumb, so he wasn’t nearly close enough yet.

The fifth leather braid went around the legs. James coiled it twice around Ben’s hard cock, keeping the loops loose enough that they wouldn’t stop him from coming – that wasn’t the game they were playing at the moment. When all of the knots were done, James pushed a finger under leather crisscrossing those straining inner thighs. He plucked it like a harp string.

Jerking, Ben’s spine arched. He let loose a long, low moan. “Sir,” he whispered, his voice raspy and hoarse. “Sir, please, sir.”

“Patience,” James said. He waited until Ben obeyed before he started on the sixth and last leather braid.

This one wound around Ben’s arms from wrists upwards to the shoulders. Then James stood in front of the boy, lifting up his hair so he could tie a knot at the back of his neck, right at the knob of his spine. Ben panted against his arm; James smiled to himself.

Then he brought the two ends of the braid forward, and tied a tiny bow right over Ben’s throat. It rested over his windpipe.

“Sir,” Ben gasped out. He squirmed in his bonds, practically struggling against them. He swung from the hook from side to side, and the movement made him sob again, his breathing utterly wrecked.

James sighed loudly. When he was sure that the boy’s eyes were on him, he drew his arm back, and slapped him across the face. Not with all of his strength – he would break bones if he did – but hard enough to jerk Ben’s head hard to one side. 

The boy stilled immediately.

“I said that you weren’t supposed to move,” James said, flat and monotonous.

“Sorry, sir,” Ben said, words practically tripping out of him. “I’m sorry, sir. Please don’t stop.” His eyes were wide now, fever-bright. Oh, he was very, very close now. 

Sighing again, James shook his head. “I’ve spent so much time on you already,” he said. “I don’t want to waste it. So obey _properly_ this time, you hear?”

“Yes,” Ben said. He nodded so hard that he was swinging slightly. “Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

“Good,” James nodded.

Then he stepped backwards. Ben was tied to the ceiling in a position in which he was facing the wall, so James picked up a chair from one of the corners and brought it there. He sat down. He waited. He watched.

It didn’t take long; James had been teasing him for a very long time, after all. Ben’s breathing grew ragged again only after a moment, but he still wasn’t moving except for his heaving chest. It had to be torture for him to feel all those leather braids, so much like hands, all over his body, and yet not be able to rub himself against them. To stop himself from taking more because _James said not to_.

“Please,” Ben said finally. The word seemed to be ripped from the very depths of his being. “Please, sir. Please. _Please_.”

James stood up. It took him only two steps to approach the boy. He cupped his face again, and Ben nuzzled against his palm like a small kitten. There were tears on his lashes; James wiped them away.

“Good boy,” he murmured. Ben sobbed. James’s hand slipped downwards, nails scraping over the skin of the boy’s chest, then his stomach. He hooked two fingers beneath the ropes over the thighs again, pulling them back and crossing his fingers.

Then he let go. The leather slid over Ben’s cock as the braids snapped back into place. James’s hand went back into his pocket.

It didn’t matter: that was more than enough. Ben’s spine arched, and he threw his head back. A ragged sob tore out of his throat, and he came hard, just like that. James shifted his hand from the boy’s cheek to cover his nose and mouth, and his other hand rose out of his pocket to tighten, just a little, over that thin neck.

Dark eyes snapped open. In that moment, James saw it: Ben _dropped_ and _flew_ at the same time, flying over the edge of not orgasm but of consciousness. His breathing changed from loud and ragged to deep and even in the space of a heartbeat. His head dropped, but his eyes remained raised – fixed, focused, entirely on James. He looked at him as if he was the world itself.

In that one moment, just that moment, he was utterly beautiful.

Curling his arm around the boy’s shoulders, James undid the knots that tied him to the ceiling. Ben slumped in his arms, and James carried him over to the chair, adjusting loose limbs until he was curled up against James. He left the other ties where they were, slowly stroking through Ben’s hair.

He still wasn’t aroused at all; that was not what he was here for. 

Instead, he held the boy and watched him fly. He traced those lips with his thumb. He looked into those eyes, the shape and colour so familiar that his heart ached. His fingers carded over those curls. He didn’t try to pretend that Ben was anyone else, but... 

Leaning in, he pressed a kiss onto the boy’s forehead, and let himself mouth a name that he would never allow himself to properly voice.

***

“He annoys me even though he’s not doing anything,” Aaron said. “I think he annoys me by existing.”

He sighed, running his hand over his head. “I know, I know, I should just ignore that. I’ve been trying. But it’s really hard to do that when he’s right there. We don’t work on the same floor, so that’s a damned relief, but we’re both under Washington now, and that’s…”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he leaned even more against the stone, stretching out his legs. “It’s a constant reminder, you know? That he’s the favourite, and I’m not. That, no matter how much I try to believe, the world isn’t fair. Promotions aren’t brought on by merit or anything close to it.”

Pausing, he turned around, running his fingers over the engraved letters on the stone. “Look at me,” he said, laughing quietly. “I’m still ranting to you, aren’t I? I’m sorry about that. I know that you’ve said before that you don’t mind, but I’m still sorry.”

After a moment, he dropped his hands back to his sides. He traced over the letters again. Then he stood up, brushing soil and bits of grass off of his slacks.

“Well, I should be going on,” he continued. “I shouldn’t be late for dinner; God knows I’m testing Sarah’s patience enough already.”

His hand dropped on top of the tombstone. Unbidden, his lips twitched into a small smile as he read the engraved words there:

_Theodosia Bartow Burr_  
Adored Wife, Beloved Mother  
August 15 1973 – May 28, 2012 

“Goodnight, Theodosia. I’ll come see you again tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll have something more interesting for you than complaints about Hamilton – I’m going to try to get some reading done tonight.”

He gripped the stone tighter, just once, before he shoved his hands into his pockets and headed out of the graveyard. He didn’t turn back.

The winds were starting to pick up now that it was a few hours after sundown. They bit at his nose, and he tugged the turtleneck of his sweater up until the scent of detergent surrounded him. He kept it on even as he took the stairs down to the subway station – his sweater smelled better than the bodies that surrounded him, though the crowds were less than they could be. Rush hour was nearly over, after all.

Taking the downtown train, he alighted at Jamaica Centre, and took the bus until he reached his house at Richmond Hill. It was a long ride, and he knew he should buy an apartment somewhere in Manhattan, or even get a car, but he was used to the transit – he had been doing the same thing for years – so it never really mattered to him. Besides, if he alighted at Greenwich Village, he could buy dinner before he reached home.

His house was a red brick two-storey that had been passed down through his mother’s family. It had been renovated several times throughout the years, especially right before he moved in with Theodosia. He took out his keys, pushed open the gate, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

“Daddy!”

Immediately, he dumped the Styrofoam packages of dinner on the shoe rack, went down on his knees, and caught his daughter right before she jumped up towards him. Theo giggled, small arms and legs wrapping around him as much and as tightly as she could make them, and he laughed into her hair.

“Hello, baby girl,” he murmured. “Did you have a good day with Aunt Sarah?”

Speak of the devil: his sister appeared at the doorway. She leaned against the doorframe, a small, soft smile on her lips.

“She has been talking non-stop about what she wants to tell you today,” Sarah said, reaching over and ruffling Theo’s hair. “So I’ll let her talk, yeah?”

Theo wriggled in his arms, lifting her head up. She twisted back, pouting at her aunt. “I haven’t been talking non-stop!” she protested. “That’s not fair.”

“Well,” Sarah said, striking a contemplative pose with her hand on her bottom lip. “You _did_ take breaks to breathe!”

“More than that!”

Aaron stroked his hand over his daughter’s hair, turning her attention back to him. “Indoor voice, Theo,” he chided. He kissed her forehead to take away the sting of even that small scolding.

“Yes, Daddy,” Theo said. She kicked her legs around, wrinkling her nose. “Down?”

“Okay, okay,” he said, letting her down. She grinned at him when she landed, immediately grabbing onto his hand and tugging him further into the house. 

Following his daughter, Aaron caught Sarah’s eyes right as he passed her, mouthing a quiet “Thanks” as their eyes met. She shook her head, waving a hand, and he sighed. Sometimes he wondered if he’d done more harm than good when he’d helped her a divorce from her husband, their old homeschooling tutor, just a year ago.

Probably not. He pushed it out of his mind.

Theo dragged him to the living room and practically shoved him towards the couch. He sat on it, and reached out to lift her into his lap, holding her close again. She was still of an age to be alright with that, so she made a pleased little sound and cuddled up against him even more, her curls – so much like Theodosia’s – bouncing.

“There’s going to be a dance performance!” she burst out, unable to contain herself any longer. 

Aaron nodded, “Mm. Tell me about it?”

She didn’t need much more prompting. Aaron listened as she started telling him about how her pre-school teacher was going to stage a performance for all of the parents. It wasn’t a linear story – she kept digressing to other stories about what had happened during the day, and retelling him things he already knew about some of her classmates – but Aaron didn’t mind. He was just listening, nodding once in a while as he brushed out the tangles in her hair with his fingers, and then started tracing her features like he always did. She wrinkled her nose and tried to bat his hand away, not stopping her flow of words at the same time.

The effusiveness was entirely her mother’s. Aaron was far too reserved himself, and had always been, to be involved in any part of it. His heart ached because Theodosia never knew her daughter, but it was a familiar thing, so he pushed it away.

Somewhere through Theo’s story, Sarah brought dinner over. Theo tried to keep talking, but both of the adults reminded her to not talk with her mouth full, and to not eat so fast. She tried to obey, she really did, and she ate neatly too. But she was still only four years old, and so Aaron had to practically pick her up and drop her into the bath to get clean after dinner.

When he finished tucking Theo into bed and reading her another couple of pages from _The Iliad_ , he walked into the kitchens. Sarah was standing there, staring into space with the dirty dishes in front of her. Aaron nudged her to the side, ignoring the way she jerked and practically jumped away from his touch, and started washing the dishes himself.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sarah said.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” They both knew how to do chores, after all; an absolutely necessary skills during those years when they were still living with Mr Edwards. 

She took a deep breath and nodded. She dragged a hand through her long, curly hair, tugging it out of her usual ponytail. He didn’t ask if she was fine; she would tell him if she wasn’t.

“I have a new case,” he said instead. 

“Oh?” Sarah blinked. She looked relieved at the change of topic. “What’s the charge?”

“Murder, first degree,” he said. “Alleged for now, of course.” He switched off the tap.

“So you’re going to be busy, then?” Sarah asked. She picked up one of the washrags and started drying the plates.

“Mm,” he nodded. He gave her an apologetic smile. “I’ll have to leave Theo in your hands more often than ever.”

Shaking her head, she gave him a smile. It was brighter than usual. “That’s really nothing to apologise for, you know,” she said quietly. “Spending time with her is a joy, not a chore.”

Then, before he could protest, she continued, “What’s the case about anyway?”

He paused. Silence stretched between them, broken up only by the clinking of porcelain. Sarah waited him out.

“I don’t think I should tell you,” he said, carefully meeting her eyes.

She opened her mouth. Then closed it. “Oh,” she said. “Something on… on _that_ , then?”

 _That_. After Sarah told him all of the details he needed to have to get both a divorce and a proper settlement from Tapping Reeves, they had come to a tacit agreement to not speak about it out loud. Not until she was ready.

“Like it, but not really,” he said shrugging.

Blinking, she shook her head again. She huffed out a quiet laugh. “There you go again, being all enigmatic,” she said, sounding amused. “But, okay. I’ll wait, and I won’t ask.”

“You’ll find out,” he promised. “If not from me, then from the press.”

“Hah,” she said. She set the last plate down. Aaron took them from her, and started putting them back on the rack.

“It’s going to blow up, then?”

“Hugely,” he said. His lips twisted into a grimace – even if there wasn’t the complication of Jefferson stepping into the prosecutor’s bench again, the press loved cases like Weeks’s. He ran a hand over his head.

“Anyway,” he changed the subject. “I’m going to do some work and then catch up on my reading. Are you going to bed?”

“Probably,” she said. She gave him a smile that wavered at the edges. “I’m kind of exhausted today.”

Reaching out, he squeezed her shoulder. “Okay,” he said, and watched as she left the kitchens, heading up towards the upstairs guest room that was really hers by now. She still had that house he’d helped her win from her ex-husband, back in New Jersey, but she had never returned to it. He didn’t blame her for not wanting to.

Switching off the lights in the kitchen and the living room, he went up to his bedroom. It hadn’t changed much since it became only his own. He took a shower, and then sat on his side of the bed. He edited some of the questions he planned to ask Weeks, though he didn’t think he would use them. When he was done with that, he pulled over Carol Adams’s _Pornography of Meat_ and started to read. As always, he made mental notes about what he was going to tell Theodosia tomorrow when he saw her.

He waited until it was two in the morning. Unlike the last couple of nights, there were no sounds coming from Sarah’s bedroom. He went to check on her anyway. She was sleeping fitfully, tossing and turning in bed. He closed the door and went up to her.

“Sarah,” he whispered. She didn’t wake. He didn’t touch her, only said, again, “Sarah.”

Slowly, the sound of his voice sunk into her mind. She calmed. When her breathing evened out again, he left the room. He checked on Theo, kissed her on the forehead and brushed over the nose that was so much like her mother’s, and went back to bed.

That night, he dreamed of Theodosia again.

***

_January 5, Tuesday_

Weekday, early morning before sunset: even New York was quiet and silent, its streets eerily deserted. The cab driver was playing some station on the radio, quiet instrumentals that filled the small space of the car; a sound that Sally couldn’t hold onto.

She didn’t try. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. When the cab pulled up two houses down from Jefferson’s, she paid the driver and walked out in the chill. The winter winds whispered around her ears; she pulled the coat he’d bought for her closer to her body. Her fingers sank into the rich, luxurious fur.  
_  
I need him,_ she mouthed to herself again. The gate opened in front of her. She looked at the huge mansion that housed only one man and servants who did not live there. She thought of her dorm room, her expensive books. _I need him_.

The inside of the house was beautiful. Once, a year and a lifetime ago, she had looked upon it in awe. He had given her a proper tour, his hand curved around her waist, tucking her against his chest. He’d explained every decision he’d made in the design, shown her the sketches he’d made for the house. He’d pressed a kiss into her hair and looked at her with eyes dark-warm with affection and love, and he’d called her _Martha, Martha, Martha_.

When she’d tried to tell him that her name was not Martha, but _Sally_ , he’d taken her by both wrists and pinned her to the wall. He was taller than her by more than a whole foot, looming above, and that sweet, indulgent smile had turned into a sneer. _You’re Martha here,_ he told her. He’d smiled, teeth bared. _Remember our deal._

Sally remembered. She couldn’t forget.

“Martha,” he breathed again now. He kissed her, lips pliant, practically melting against her as she wrapped her arms around his neck like she knew she was supposed to. Her dead half-sister’s name always sounded like a prayer on his lips; she told herself that she didn’t mind.

After a few moments of nipping at his lips with her teeth, she pulled back. She placed two fingers on his mouth and smiled.

“Are you going to bring me to the bedroom, Tom, or are we going to stay here the whole night?”

He laughed, a rich, full sound that she never heard from him during his infrequent appearances on the television. He closed his mouth around her finger, and sucked lightly. “Will staying here be so bad?” he asked. “The servants have all gone home, my love. There’s no one to scandalise.”

Sally no longer needed to look into his eyes to see the challenge in them. She sighed instead, loud and exaggerated, and sunk her fingers into his hair. She _pulled_ , hard.

(The first time: _Touch my hair, Martha. Didn’t you always love my hair?_

She said: _Did you grow it out for me, darlin’?_

Eyes lowered, cheeks pinked, he said: _You said you wanted something to hold._ )

“Bedroom,” she ordered. She dug deep into the recesses of herself, pulling out the accent she’d spent so long excising: “C’mon now, darlin’.”

His chest heaved, breath hitched. Then he smiled, tilting his head and closing his mouth around her finger, and laved his tongue upon her skin. When she shivered, it was as Sally and Martha both.

Then he stepped back. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other coming beneath her knees, and he lifted her up. Sally didn’t yelp, didn’t let go of his hair ( _he didn’t like it the first time she did that_ ), and instead leaned her head against his chest. His heart was beating so quickly, like thunderous drumbeats of a familiar song. She scratched her nails over his skin, carding through the coarse hairs, and felt him stumble, felt his heart beat even faster.

He put her down on the bed like she was something precious. The back of her fingers brushed over his cheek, and he shivered. He bit his bottom lip, turning it redder, wetter. She stroked her thumb over it because she knew he wanted her to.

“May I,” he started, and there was that bashfulness again. “Can I touch you, Martha?”

“You may undress me,” she said. When he did, she stopped him from removing the scarf, and stretched upwards to show off the silk lingerie he told her to wear.

His eyes were wide upon her. “You like it,” he said. His fingertips skimmed above her still-covered breasts. The metal band around his fourth finger felt more liquid than skin.

“I do,” she said, even though she didn’t. (The first time she saw it, she thought: _did a dead woman wear this before, or is it new?_ She never knew how to ask him.)

Leaning in, he buried his nose into her neck, taking a long, deep breath. His cock was a thick, heavy weight against her thigh. She nudged against it, and patted his hair when he let out a groan muffled by her skin.

“C’mon, darlin’. Get your clothes off.”

(The first time: _You’ve always told me what to do. You know I never wanted to do anything to you that you didn’t want me to_.

She thought: _Oh_. Then: _Surely not?_ )

When he was naked in front of her, she looked at him. There were women who would think him beautiful, she knew; women who would kill to be in her position. She slipped the scarf off her neck as she sat up, and looped it over his, pulling him close. She let him kiss her, let him whisper _Martha_ against her lips again, and wondered if those women would want to have that aching knot at the bottom of their stomachs, too.

Knotting the scarf, she tied it tightly enough that it restricted his breathing. When he gasped, tilting his head back, she shoved at his shoulders, pushing him down onto the bed. He went easily, flopping down, eyes wide and so, so dark. She straddled his shoulders, and stroked over his hair and down his jawline. His eyelids fluttered.

Then she lifted her hand and slapped him across the face.

(The first time: _Do it again_ ,

She thought: _What?_ It was an accident. Her hands were flailing. She did not mean to hit him. She was trying to get him to stop. She changed her mind.

Deep flush, barely a whisper: _Please. Do it again, please?_

In that moment, she _knew_. She thought: _Oh_. She thought: _Like recognises like_. She wanted to laugh. She thought: _I can use this_.)

His head snapped to the side. His breathing was shattered entirely, deep, uneven gasps escaping his throat. His mouth was open but he couldn’t seem to speak.

“You said you bought these for me,” she said, hooking her thumb over the hemline of her panties. “But I think you bought these for yourself, darlin’.”

He started to shake his head. She slapped him again. He tried to arch beneath her, but she pushed him back down.

“C’mon,” she said, and wriggled even closer. It was hard to look into his eyes in this position, but she really didn’t need to. She didn’t want to. “Let’s see if it tastes good, yeah?”

When he nodded, she patted his hair. He surged upwards then, closing his mouth over the panties, lips and teeth and tongue immediately seeking out her clit. He licked at her through the silk, probably ruining it entirely. His hands came up to try to touch her thighs, but she pinned them back down, leaning over his face, rocking her hips into his mouth.

It was good. She was wet. Neither of that changed, no matter how many times she came over to this house. But there was still that knot in her stomach, that millipede creeping up her spine. She sank her nails into his wrists, felt more than heard his moan, and swallowed back the tears that burned at the back of her eyes.

(The first time: _Can I_ and _Please_ and _Let me._

 __On his knees, his cheeks red and hot beneath her fingers: _Martha_.

She thought: _You should’ve told me you wanted me to play this game. I know this game. You should’ve told me._ She thought: _I’m angry, I’m angry, I’m angry._ She thought, again: _I can use this_.)

There were stars fighting with the tears beneath her eyelids. She sank her knees into the mattress, lifting her hips away from his mouth. There was a trail of spit from her panties to his lips. He was staring at her. His look of betrayal would be so much more convincing if his eyes weren’t already glazing over.

“C’mon, darlin’.” She grabbed the scarf, pulling him up, and he followed her so easily. She splayed her fingers over his throat. His pulse jumped, and his eyes unfocused even more when she squeezed. She held her hand there like that as she moved down his body, deliberately brushing over his sides with her thighs. 

“Get these things off you,” she said, and snapped the waistband of his boxers over his hips. As he scrambled to obey, she kissed his jaw, brushing her lips over his rough beard. She guided his hand over to her panties. 

“And these off of me.”

Reverence in his fingers, worship in his eyes; power buzzing beneath her skin. He sat on the bed, breathing hard, and didn’t try to touch her. Her wet panties hung off his fingers, his arm was stiff by his side. She picked them up and stretched the silk over his mouth, tucking cloth between his teeth and hooking the waistband over his ears.

Immediately, he bit down; she never needed to ask. His eyes had gone wide again. His cock was so hard against her thigh. She sank her knees deeper into the mattress, balancing herself with one hand on his shoulder, and rubbed the head of his cock between her legs.

His hips jerked upwards. His inhale was so sharp that it sounded painful.

“No, darlin’.” She tossed her head back and laughed. It echoed in her ears; she ignored it. She smiled at him, the smile she’d once seen in a small photograph placed above a coffin, and patted his cheek. “You gotta show me that you deserve to, alright?”

He nodded. He mouthed her name again. But his hips stilled. He didn’t move even as she continued to rock; even as she leaned back so he could see the way his saliva and her slick were starting to drip down his cock. He was breathing so hard that it filled the room. She wanted to throw up. 

She watched his eyes. When they glazed over completely, she leaned in, kissing his jaw again. His head jerked, turning towards her, and she held it even as she sank down on him, taking him inside her body.

(The first time: _Don’t you trust me? Do you think I’m dirty?_

She thought: _No_. She thought: _Don’t turn me into my mother._ She thought: _I never wanted to be my mother_.

She said: _Of course I trust you_. She said: _Of course you’re not dirty._

She thought: _You make me feel like I am._ )

Head falling backwards, he gasped. She reeled him back in with the scarf, tightening the knot even further, pressing it hard against his windpipe. His fingers clawed at the sheets, and she let him go.

“You’ve earned it now, darlin’,” she told him, using the tone of voice she’d recorded and replayed for herself, over and over, until she got it right. “C’mon. Take what you’ve been craving.”

There was a moment’s pause. She braced herself.

Then there was a pair of hands on her hips, and her back was slammed into the mattress. He drew out of her and shoved back in. He fucked her with short, rapid thrusts. She closed her legs around his hips, barely remembering to dig her heels into his back, and let it happen. 

Her dorm room: _Columbia University_ outside the window, books of anatomy on her desk. Lavish lecture halls. Small, perfectly formed mountains on her transcripts, without a single curve.

Momma’s too-small apartment behind her. She wasn’t going back. _I need his money._ Father’s too-large estate behind her. She wasn’t going back. _I need his money._ Virginia behind her. She wasn’t going back. _I need his money_. 

Paper in her hands: _We regret to inform that your application for a scholarship has not been approved…_

Water soaked into her neck. She gagged him so she didn’t have to listen to his prayers for her dead half-sister, the woman she both never knew and knew far too well, but every single tear was scalding holy water anyway. She sank her fingers into his hair, tugging hard, and he sobbed loudly enough to be heard even when muffled.

His fingers sank into her arms, nearly hard enough to bruise. He was close. She rocked her hips up hard, encouraging. He spilled inside her; she threw her head back. “ _Tom_ ,” she moaned. She never had an orgasm in this house.

He slumped against her, panting. She unhooked the panties from around his mouth, folded them properly and laid them on the pillow. He was shaking. Her neck was getting wetter by the second. She didn’t try to hold him.

After a moment, he sat up and pulled out of her. He took off the scarf and folded it precisely, laying it next to the panties. He didn’t look at her, instead walking over to his desk. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. His cock was wet and obscene on his thigh.

Getting off the bed, she picked up her pants. She took the extra pair of panties from the pocket. He still didn’t turn to look at her.

He was still shaking. There were tear streaks on his face. He looked pathetic. Bile rose up her throat. She swallowed, and turned away. Her heart was twisting, but it didn’t matter.

She went to shower.

(The first time: _What the hell do you mean?_

Sitting on the bed, blinking at him, she repeated: _You should’ve told me that you wanted to play it like this. That’s how things go._

Eyes narrowing, he looked at her: _I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not a game. Nothing between Martha and me has ever been a game._

She thought: _Oh._ She thought: _He doesn’t know._ There was a fist clenching around her heart. _He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know_.

Crossing his arms, he said: _Don’t forget our deal_.

She thought, nearly giddy with triumph: _I can use this._ )  
_  
_ ***

_January 4, Monday_

After several tries on Uber – apparently no driver wanted to take up a job from someone heading to the morgue – Alexander gave up and just took the subway east to First Avenue.

Laurens’s work place was a four-storey red-brick building that vaguely resembled some kind of mall transplanted into the twenty-first century from decades ago. There were actually a few shops in the building, and the sign _New York Mortuary Services_ blended in perfectly with them. Whenever he saw it, Alexander couldn’t help the small thrill he felt – only in _America_ could death and dissection become part of a business; become just another avenue for people to rise up in society.

He pushed through the doors, throwing a smile at the receptionist at the counter – he had forgotten her name – before he headed on in. Laurens wasn’t the Chief Medical Examiner, but he was pretty high-ranking within the department. He went down the stairs to the basement, peeked through the glass windows of the cold rooms, and finally made a beeline for the staff section, completely ignoring the _RESTRICTED_ in size fifty Comic Sans pasted on the door.

“Yo,” he said.

Hip leaning against the counter, Laurens blinked at him. He took a sip of his coffee. “I suppose it’s useless to tell you that you’re not supposed to be here, right?”

“Never mind that,” Alexander waved his hand. “I’m here about a body.”

“You’re always here for a body,” Laurens said. His lips quirked up into a small, dry smile. “And there are a lot of bodies here. Which one are you looking for?”

Alexander opened his mouth. After a moment, he realised that he had clean forgotten the victim’s name. It started with E, he knew. Ezra? No, Ez _rine_ was the client’s name. His brows creased, and he cocked his head to the side.

Laurens rolled his eyes. “What’s the name of the person who hired you?”

“Ezrine Weeks.”

“Oh.” Laurens put his coffee cup down. “You’re looking for Mister Charcoal Nipples, then.”

Nodding, Alexander shoved his hands into his pockets, hiding the way that they were instinctively clenching. He knew, of course, that Laurens and his colleagues had their reasons – very good ones – for the nicknames they gave to the corpses. For giving nicknames to the corpses in the first place. Laurens explained it once: if they thought of the corpses as people, then it was so much harder to cut into them.

Every single time he came here, Alexander couldn’t help but wonder just why Laurens chose to work as a medical examiner. There were so many other things he could use his medical degree on. The answer that Laurens gave – that it was a constant reminder about the ugliness of death – wasn’t particularly helpful; neither was the vague hand gesture that Laurens made at the time, sketching an anchor.

“Coming?” Laurens was beside him now, one hand at the doorframe and brows raised.

Shaking his head hard, Alexander said, “Right,” and followed him.

They entered a cold room named _FIVE_ in the same obnoxious oversized Comic Sans. The room smelled weirdly of roast meat. Laurens took a pair of gloves and a mask, shoving both at Alexander before taking his own.

“We’re not finished yet, but I think what we already have is the stuff that’s interesting to you,” Laurens said. His voice sounded muffled behind his mask. Then, glancing at Alexander, he took the handle of one of the drawers and pulled it out.

Square jaw. Tanned skin. Long lashes. Plush lips, just a little swollen. Beautiful hands and toned legs. There was a sheet that covered his hips. He would look like he was sleeping if not for the mass of raw burns at the sides of his chest, and the peeled back skin and sawed-through ribs in the middle. The smell of roast meat was stronger than ever, mixed with the ever-present stench of formaldehyde.

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a breath, and pushed away the lingering memories. There was no water here, no screams. There were no cold, stiff arms around him. There was no constant creak of an overloaded ceiling fan. He had seen a lot of dead bodies before. This was just another one.

When he opened his eyes, Laurens was looking at him. Alexander nodded. He carefully put his hands as far away from the corpse as he could without stepping back.

“Tell me what you guys have found,” he said. Thankfully, his voice was steady.

Laurens closed the drawer. He folded his arms and leaned against the rack.

“First thing: there’s actually a very small hole in his heart, less than a millimetre. I checked his medical records – they came from the hospital along with him – and that wasn’t listed, so that’s something.”

“Okay,” Alexander said. He could work with this. He could spin this as an accident. An undiagnosed heart condition that his client’s brother – what _was_ his name? – didn’t and couldn’t have known about. That immediately removed the first-degree murder charge; it would be manslaughter, if Alexander couldn’t get him entirely acquitted.

“Something more interesting, though,” Laurens said, breaking Alexander out of his thoughts. 

“What is it?”

“Heard from Hercules that Mister Charcoal Nipples was cooked because he and his lover were playing with batteries,” he said. “But those must’ve been some kind of really fucking industrial-strength batteries they were using.”

Alexander blinked slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Normal home-use batteries run at maximum thirteen volts, yeah?” Without waiting for an answer, Laurens continued. “Those aren’t burns from thirteen volts. That’s from at _least_ thirty, and more than 10 mA as well.”

Laurens lifted his hand, almost running it through his hair, before he realised he still had gloves on and let it drop back to the side. “It’s a homicide case, so three of us checked it. Including our boss.” His lips twisted. “The burns are way too much for it to be batteries you get from a supermarket.”

“Unless,” Alexander jumped in, mouth moving faster than his mind, “unless his skin was wet at the time? With sweat, perhaps?”

“No,” Laurens shook his head. “We took that into account too. Two things refute that theory: one, even if he was sweating, thirteen volts wouldn’t have burnt that much. Two…” He hesitated. His fingers toyed at the handle of the drawer.

“He wasn’t sweating. The burn pattern don’t make sense if he was.” 

Alexander looked at the drawer. There was still that sense of dread, but he took another breath and shoved it deep down inside him. “Show me,” he said.

Looking at him for a long moment, Laurens nodded. He stepped away from the rack before pulling the body out again. Alexander looked away when those hands began to push the skin back into place.

“Here.”

Sands looked almost human now. Almost, because bits of skin were still hanging loose, the edges floppy. There were also strange bumps in the middle of the chest where his ribs had been cut open. Alexander swallowed, tearing his eyes away from that spot to follow Laurens’s fingers.

“Sweat trails downwards,” Laurens was saying. His fingers trailed southwards from the collarbones. “If that’s what killed him, there would be lines showing it, moving up in the opposite direction. But instead…”

Both hands rested on either sides of Sands’s chest, right above the horribly black and charred nipples.

“Look, the shape of a circle, mostly concentrated here,” he pointed at the spots where the skin was red and raw, the tan entirely bleached to reveal pink skin edged with black. “That’s the main concentration of the voltage that went through his body.”

He shook his head, sighing to himself. “You know what I don’t get?” he asked, surely rhetorically because Alexander could barely register his words. “Police report stated that his squeeze was trying to give him some kind of extra stimulation. Make sex more exciting, you know? But the bloody voltage would’ve sent him to the emergency room even if he didn’t have a heart condition.”

Something must have shown on Alexander’s face, because Laurens sighed. The drawer disappeared again.

There were bits of blood and skin on Laurens’s hands. No, his gloves. Alexander tore his eyes away from them.

“It could still have been an accident,” he blurted out.

“No idea,” Laurens said, starting to pull off his gloves. “I leave that up to you; you’re the lawyer, not me.”

He walked towards the door and tossed the things along with the mask into the trash. When he turned back, he was Laurens again – just Laurens, not a half-faceless medical examiner.

“C’mon,” Laurens said. “You want some coffee? We have the best espresso machine in these parts of the city.”

Alexander stared at him. Then he nodded slowly. He removed his gloves and his mask mechanically before following Laurens out of the door. It wasn’t because he was shocked at the sight of the corpse, he told himself. That had nothing to do with it. He was just trying to think up of possible arguments he could use, that was all.

That was all.

***

When Sally stepped out of the shower, he was dressed again. He was standing beside the barometer in the room, recording the temperature in a thick, leather-bound journal; the same thing he did every night she was here. Outside the window, the skies were still dark.

She took a deep breath. “Mr Jefferson,” she said.

“What is it?” he asked. His tone was cold and flat again. 

“There are a couple more textbooks I need to get…” she trailed off.

The silence stretched out between them, broken only by the _scratch-scritch_ of his fountain pen on paper. Then he snapped his journal shut. He opened a drawer and took out his wallet. He fished out some notes, and held them out to her.

A thousand dollars. In cash.

She was still staring when he flapped them in her face. She opened her hand, closed it. He gave her five hundred more. Open, Close. The notes were crisp, new-smelling. Her fingers were stiff.

“Get a nice dress,” he said. When she looked up, his eyes were scanning her up and down. “There’s some kind of fundraising event going on next month. You’re coming with me.”

Sally ducked her head. She swallowed down more bile. “Yes, Mr Jefferson,” she whispered.

“Now get the hell out of my house,” he said. She obeyed.

The cab took ten minutes to come. She stood there in the cold, her hands clenched around the money, ruining the pristine newness, and shoved into the pockets of the fur coat. She didn’t turn back even though his bedroom light was the only one switched on for miles.

This time, the cab driver’s radio was tuned into NPR. She tried to listen; it didn’t work. She reached her dorm and went upstairs. She put the money into the envelope with all of the extra ‘allowances’ that he’d given her these past few months.

Then she slipped into the bathroom, locked the door, and threw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first scene, Madison goes to a BDSM club and engages in a scene with a sub that’s involved _shibari_ \- elaborate rope-play; it's consensual, and non-sexual on his part. In the second scene, Burr’s sister Sarah (not Sally as she’s called historically since I already have a Sally as a POV character) is implied to have just escaped from an abusive relationship. In the third scene, Jefferson and Sally have sex. The consent issues are all in this scene. Jefferson is Sally’s sugar daddy – he has the power to withhold money from her if she refuses him sex. But the consent issues get worse because Sally Doms him without his knowledge _or_ consent, and it’s very clear in her POV that she doesn’t really want to do it either – she thinks she has to, and it’s against her very nature to do so. Jefferson also calls Sally by his dead wife’s/her half-sister’s name throughout the whole thing. In the fourth scene, Alexander goes to visit Laurens at the morgue. There are graphic descriptions of a dead body and hints towards Alexander having flashbacks.
> 
> Again, **please stop reading here** if my depictions of anything or anyone so far have made you feel anything you don’t want to feel, because it’ll only get worse from here. I will _always_ warn for everything so you guys never step in surprised, but every single scene is pivotal to the plot and every plotline is essential to dealing several issues that I’m writing this fic to figure out. Reading fanfic is for enjoyment. The last thing I want is for anyone reading this to not enjoy themselves. 
> 
> Anyway, the name Debauchee is taken from the poem _The Maim'd/Disabled Debauchee_ , by John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. And Sarah Burr is played by [Zainab Jah](http://i.imgur.com/ql6siFv.png).


	3. who tells your story?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All you know about someone is what _you_ see of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Second scene: hints of classism and racism. Nothing other than that except the blanket warning about characters being both heroes and villains at the same time; i.e. this fic is a mind-screw.

_January 5, Tuesday_

Levi Weeks’s apartment had been cordoned off as a crime scene, and as his sister was the one who provided the money to bail him out, he was staying with her. According to the text Burr sent, she lived on one of the top floors of the Fifth Avenue Apartments, right beside Central Park.

“So I’ve found out a few things,” Alexander told Burr the moment he saw the man approach the building’s entrance. “I went to the morgue yesterday afternoon after the meeting, and…”

He struggled with his coat slightly before he managed to reach his backpack underneath, digging into it for the spiral notebook he used last night. “There’s a couple of things that are interesting, and I have a few ideas about how we can use for our arguments…”

“Hamilton,” Burr said. He stopped right before the turnstile of the building, hand resting on the railing. He was smiling, wide with a glint of teeth, and his eyes were cold.

“I’d rather keep my mind blank for this particular meeting,” he said. “So you can tell me later.”

Alexander opened his mouth. Then he considered what Burr actually said. The man had a point – the last thing a lawyer should do was to think that his client was guilty even before meeting him. What Alexander had in his notepad and phone from Laurens was incriminating, perhaps even damningly so. He nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “But we _are_ going to discuss the case today.”

“Of course,” Burr murmured. “Because I really have nothing better to do with my lunch hour.” Before Alexander could reply, he was already pushing through the turnstile. Alexander huffed, shoving his notebook back into his bag before following.

He let Burr handle the security guards at the door. Burr, with his polished manners, could always get into places with just a mask and a few soft-spoken words when Alexander had to shout into people’s faces and endure their frowns and unsubtle staring whenever he stepped into a place where he supposedly didn’t belong. It pissed Alexander off like nothing else: he cleaned up his accent, he dressed better, so what the hell more did people want from him? To become like Burr, hiding all of his opinions behind a myriad of masks and pasting on fake smiles? 

No way.

Still, he had to admit that having Burr on his side was useful. While Alexander was ruminating on his thoughts, Burr had somehow gotten the security guards to laugh. One of them shook Burr’s hand, and then waved him and Alexander both through. They didn’t ask for Alexander’s identification. They took both of their coats.

The elevator was wall-to-wall mirrors except for the two black rectangles where the buttons resided. Alexander pressed the button for Ezrine Weeks’s floor, then stared at himself. He looked fine; more than presentable, in fact.

“I’m going to leave most of the interview to you,” Burr said. The sound of his voice made Alexander jerk, and he cursed under his breath as his hair tie dropped onto the floor.

Picking it up, he stared at the other man. “What?”

“You’re better at getting people to like you,” Burr shrugged. He slipped his hands into his pockets, meeting Alexander’s eyes. “Weeks doesn’t know us at all, and we’re the ones in charge of his fate. So I’m going to leave it to you to make him trust us enough to tell us what he knows.”

Alexander blinked. He busied himself with retying his hair and smoothing out the strands so he wouldn’t stare. 

“What,” he said. “But you just…” His hand flapped towards the elevator doors.

“That’s a different thing,” Burr said, shaking his head. “That’s not going to make Weeks trust us. Not in the long term.”

 _Then what the hell was it that you just did? What’s the difference?_ Alexander opened his mouth to ask, but Burr did his stupid eyebrow thing again, cocking his head to the side.

“Are you saying that you don’t have questions already prepared?”

“Of course I do!”

“Good,” Burr nodded. His eyes flickered away from Alexander – they were nearing Ezrine’s floor – before returning. “Because I don’t.”

Oh. So _that_ was what this was about. Burr just wanted to get the information while doing as little work as he could. Well, that was entirely expected, Alexander supposed. He rolled his eyes.

“If you are being lazy, then just say so,” he said. He didn’t put his hands into his pockets – that might crease the lines of his slacks – instead crossing his arms. “Don’t pretend to flatter me.”

Burr shrugged. “Okay,” he said, and that was such a complete and absolute non-answer that Alexander clenched his hands again.

But he couldn’t say a word, because then the elevator _dinged_ , and the door opened. Not to a hallway, but to the apartment itself: Ezrine lived in one of the penthouse suites of the building; her apartment was less of a separate unit than the entire floor. Why a divorced woman with no children needed that much space, Alexander had no idea, and he wasn’t going to ask.

Ezrine was sitting on the couch, papers sprawled all over the coffee table in front of her. She turned around as they stepped out of the elevator, and her lips curved up into a small smile.

“Mr Burr, Mr Hamilton,” she greeted. She checked her watch – who wore a watch in their _own apartment?_ – and her smile widened into something more sincere. “Exactly on time.”

“Ms Weeks,” Burr nodded at her. “Thank you for allowing us this interview.”

She laughed, shaking her head. A few curls escaped from her tight bun, and she tucked them back behind her ear. “Don’t thank me for making sure that you two do the job I’m paying you for,” she said.

Then her eyes sharpened. She turned her head, and nodded towards the stairs. “Levi is in his room. First one down that hallway. He knows that you’re coming, and he’s already awake.”

Burr made a motion to leave, but Alexander caught his arm without looking. He met Ezrine’s eyes. “How is he doing, Ms Weeks?” 

Those hard eyes softened, and she shook her head. “Badly,” she said. “You’ll see for yourselves.” She jerked his head. “Go on.”

Alexander nodded. He headed up the stairs with Burr by his side. At the door that was marked with a piece of paper with _LEVI_ scrawled on it, they exchanged a glance. Burr knocked. Alexander took out his phone, switched on voice recording, and slipped it back into his pocket.

“Mr Weeks?” he called. “We’re your attorneys. Will you mind letting us in?”

There was a long silence. Then, very muffled: “C’mon in, then.”

Of course Alexander knew what Levi Weeks looked like – not only had he gone through the case files that Washington had brought from the precinct where he’d been taken to after his arrest, the media had been in a slight frenzy about it last night and this morning. Photographs of the man were everywhere.

The first sight Alexander caught of the living, breathing person was entirely different from the well-dressed, smiling pictures that were splashed all over the Internet. Levi Weeks was lying face-down on his bed, dressed in a ragged sweatshirt and sweatpants. His long hair was a frizzy mess. When he sat up and faced them, his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. He rubbed at them before he tried to give them a watery smile. He sniffled hard, then pulled another tissue out of the box on his bed and blew his nose. 

There were bandages covering every single one of his fingertips.

“Sorry,” he said, muffled. “I’m a complete mess.” He tossed the used tissue down onto the floor, letting it join the pile that was nearly ankle-high.

Alexander blinked. Of all the things he expected of Levi Weeks, being reminded of a teenager who had just gone through his very first breakup was not it. For a moment, he floundered helplessly.

Levi lifted his head up. “Uhm,” he said. He scratched the back of his neck. “Take a seat?” He waved towards the room. 

There was only one chair. Burr picked it up and used its legs to push away some of the tissues before he motioned Alexander into it with his chin. Alexander decided to not protest this, and sat down. Burr perched himself against Levi’s desk.

“Mr Weeks,” Alexander began. “As you know, we’re from Knox, Greene, and Washington. Your sister Ezrine hired us to be your defence during your upcoming trial.”

The boy- the _man_ , Alexander reminded himself, because Levi was only two years younger than himself- nodded. He sniffled again, and drew his knees to his chest.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse. “I know. Ezrine’s been really good about this. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.”

From the background check he did last night on both siblings, Alexander knew that the sister was ten years the brother’s senior. He also knew that it was Ezrine’s money that allowed Levi to wear that Yale sweatshirt. He deliberately pushed away that sense of irritation that was rising within him; it didn’t matter.

“Will you please tell us what happened on Saturday night?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle.

“I already,” Levi said. He dabbed at his eyes. “I already told the police. I told Washington too. I don’t want to say it all over again.”

Alexander bit back a sigh. He set his backpack down on the ground before he fished out the files. He was halfway through to looking through them when Burr spoke.

“We read through the reports, yes, but we’d prefer to hear it from you.” When Levi blinked at him, Burr gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “There is plenty that is missing from reports, Mr Weeks.”

“Levi,” the man corrected. “Sorry, please call me Levi.” Then he looked from Alexander to Burr, his lips curving up into a small, sheepish smile. 

“One of you is Aaron Burr, the other one is Alexander Hamilton,” he said. “But I don’t know which is which. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Alexander said quickly, before Burr could cut in again. “We didn’t introduce ourselves. I’m Alexander Hamilton.” He stuck out his hand.

Burr, damn him, only nodded.

“Right,” Levi said. He took another piece of tissue and wiped his hand before shaking Alexander’s. It was clammy, but his grip was surprisingly strong. So the man had _some_ spine in him, after all.

“Will you please tell us what happened on Saturday?” Alexander persisted.

“Uhm,” Levi said. He took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair. The strands fell down to his elbow when he let go of them.

“Elric and I, we… we like to play. Ezrine said you know what ‘play’ means,” he looked up, and Alexander nodded encouragingly, “and… and that’s what we like to do. I mean, I don’t know what you’ve heard about our kind of play, but we weren’t doing it to spice up our relationship. What we had didn’t need any kind of ‘spicing up’.”

His eyes welled up with tears. Alexander plucked a piece of tissue from the box and held it out. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Burr slipping out of the room.

Levi didn’t seem to notice; he was staring at his hands. “It was a need in both of us,” he continued. “He… he liked to be good. I liked to make him feel good when he was good. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Alexander said. He understood perfectly. “Yeah, it makes sense.”

Looking up, Levi met his eyes. There were still tears spilling down his cheeks, but his gaze was steady and suddenly very, very sharp.

Then he smiled. “Okay,” he said. “I didn’t tell Washington or the police about this. I didn’t think they’d get it. So… okay.”

Alexander nodded. He held out another piece of tissue. Levi wiped his cheeks, then hugged his knees even closer to his chest.

“It was Elric’s idea,” he whispered. “He read about electricity play on the Internet, you know, and he wanted to try. I’ve… I’ve done it before, with other people. Before we started dating. But I researched as much as I could anyway. I tried to make it as safe as I could.”

 _Those must’ve been some kind of really fucking industrial-strength batteries they were using._ Laurens’s voice. Alexander pushed it away.

“What happened?” he asked gently.

“We tried with normal batteries first,” Levi said. “But… but Elric said that it wasn’t working. He wasn’t feeling anything. So you know… I have an engineering degree.” He tugged at his sweatshirt. “I have some of the stronger ones at my place. When Elric said that he wanted something stronger…”

This wasn’t in the reports. Maybe Burr was right, after all; Alexander could get people to talk better.

And speaking about Burr, he had somehow appeared again, perched against the desk, while Alexander was focused on Levi. The man moved like a damned ghost. Alexander ignored him.

“You used something stronger on him?” Alexander asked.

Levi nodded. His hand flailed for another tissue. The box was empty now. Before Alexander could even look around, Burr picked up something from the desk, and held it out. It was a new box, completely full.

Burr was sometimes _really fucking creepy_. Alexander stared at him. Then he took the box, knocked the empty one off of the bed, and focused back on the client.

“Just one of the bigger batteries,” Levi said. He rubbed at his nose, and rested his forehead on his knees. “That’s… that’s when _everything_ went wrong.”

He started to shake. Alexander hesitated, then pushed through his own reluctance. He reached out and squeezed Levi’s shoulder.

“Elric just… he just…” Levi started, sobbing in earnest now. “He just started shaking. I tried to pull off the clips, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Because the current was too strong. It burnt- it burnt my fingers.” He held them out. Alexander gingerly patted one wrist, then the other.

“Then he just… he stopped moving. He stopped _breathing_. I panicked then, and I called the police. I pulled everything off. I tried to wake him up. But he wouldn’t wake up. He wouldn’t… he didn’t…” He broke off, starting to rock back and forth.

Alexander turned, catching Burr’s gaze. _Do something_ , he mouthed. Burr crossed his arms. He shook his head. Alexander glared at him, but Burr was, as always, unfazed, so Alexander sighed. It would have to be up to him, then. God, he hated doing this.

Reaching out, he closed both hands on Levi’s shoulders, tugging him close. The man fell forward, practically sprawling on the bed. His head landed on Alexander’s lap, and Alexander started stroking his hair. A little awkwardly, barely touching the sweaty strands, but patting nonetheless.

“It’s my fault,” Levi said. His eyes opened, bloodshot and teary. “It’s completely my fault. I know it’s my fault. But I didn’t mean to. I didn’t _mean_ to. If… If I could die, if they can execute me and it’d bring him back, I’d let them. I’d beg them to do it.”

He buried his face into Alexander’s thigh. “It’d be better than living like this.”

“Don’t say that,” Alexander hissed immediately. He squeezed Levi’s shoulder hard enough to feel bone beneath his nails. “Don’t say that. Even if the city still had the death penalty, you _don’t_ deserve that. What happened was an _accident_.”

When Levi looked up to him, focused on him, Alexander took a trick from someone he knew and gripped his chin, forcing his head upwards.

“Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Levi said. The word was slurred. His eyes started to glaze over immediately. “I… I hear you.” 

Alexander stared into those dark eyes for a moment. Then he realised what he was doing, and immediately let go. Levi flopped back onto the bed as Alexander scrambled backwards, wide-eyed. The chair’s legs caught on the carpeting, tilting before falling forward again. He couldn’t get away. His breath caught in his throat. 

That was not the way to deal with a client, he thought, a little wild. God, he made promises to himself to never allow _those things_ to intrude into his life. What the hell was he doing—

Hands slapped down over his shoulders. Alexander’s thoughts screeched into a halt. He looked up. Burr was standing behind him, holding him up. His eyes were cool and distant. He shook his head. His hands squeezed harder, thumbs digging into the flesh between Alexander’s shoulderblades.

 _Calm down_ , he mouthed. Alexander opened his mouth, about to tell him that such platitudes didn’t help, but what escaped him was instead a sudden, rushed exhale. With the air went all of the tension in his body, and the suddenly-twisting knot in his chest loosened. He clicked his mouth shut. 

He inhaled. It came easily. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale again.

Burr let go of him. Alexander’s spine remained straight. Nothing threatened to encroach into the edges of his vision. His hands didn’t shake. Okay. He took a tissue from the box, and held it out towards his client.

“I’m sorry for making you tear open the wounds that have doubtlessly only began to heal, Levi,” he said. His voice echoed a little in his ears, but the words came smoothly. “But you do understand that we need to know.”

“Yeah,” Levi nodded. He took the tissue, staring down at it. Alexander waited as the man slowly folded himself back in until he was sitting on the bed again. “Yeah. I’m not… I’m not okay. But we can continue.”

Alexander looked at Burr without knowing why. Burr nodded. He breathed again, letting the breath out from his teeth. He turned back to Levi, who was blowing his nose again. Then he nodded, putting as much reassurance as he could master into that motion. He took out his notebook, then a pen.

“Alright,” he said, tone business-brisk. “Will you tell me about your relationship with Mr Sands, Levi? How did you meet him?”

Levi looked at him for a long moment. His eyes were red and swollen, lids heavy – it was nearly impossible to read them. Alexander pasted a smile on his face, and tried to project as much trustworthiness as he could. His fingers tightened around his pen.

“Okay,” Levi said. He took a deep breath, and wiped at his eyes again. “I met Elric three years ago…” __  
  
***

_January 12, Tuesday_

There wasn’t a car park immediately close to St. John the Baptist Church; Thomas had to park a little further up at a garage on Cook Street before he walked south to Lewis Avenue. This was already on the pros and cons list he’d made for taking the car, and it was still better than taking the subway with the unwashed masses. Still, he didn’t expect just how much his silver Jaguar stood out amidst not just the other cars, but the buildings surrounding the parking lot itself. He triple-locked it.

The church was a huge four-storey light-red building that was cleaner and better-kept than Thomas expected of this particular Brooklyn neighbourhood. As he slipped in through the double doors, he could already see the candles were more than half-burnt – the cycle of prayers and the funeral Mass was already over, then. Careful to keep his footsteps silent – he wore one of his older shoes for this purpose, and also one of his darkest and most drab suits and coats – he took a seat at the very last pew. 

Last week had seen the case blowing up in the papers, especially when it was let slip that Thomas was stepping into the courtroom specifically for it. There would be reporters who would be hounding Elric Sands’s family and friends soon – either during the wake or after the coffin was lowered, as was their usual wont – so Thomas had wanted to arrive before them. He could’ve come here before the funeral proceedings began, he knew, but it was a better idea to wait.

Though he was fluent in Spanish, he tuned out most of the absolution. He watched the congregation instead. The church was almost entirely filled despite how big it was, and most of them were from the community around Bushwick – their ill-fitting suits, cheap dresses, and ugly down jackets with their plastic-like layers fitted well with everything else around the place. Most of them were crying, either quietly or loudly, and the tears seemed pretty sincere. There were even tears on some of the choir members’ faces as they began to sing _in paradisum_. Thomas noted, distantly, that their Latin pronunciations was pretty good; that was a surprise.

As the congregation began to file out of the church, following the six men who were carrying the covered coffin on their shoulders, he was noticed. The woman’s red-rimmed eyes widened, and her hand tightened around her handkerchief. Thomas nodded towards her, and approached.

“Mrs Sands.”

“Mr Jefferson,” she whispered. Her eyes darted towards the coffin, towards her son and her husband who was the lead pallbearer.

Beside her, a young girl – couldn’t be out of her teens yet – pressed her lips into a line. “What are you doing here?”

“I have some questions, if you would answer them,” he said, keeping his voice even and meeting her gaze squarely. “But I’m willing to wait until you’re done.”

Her eyes narrowed even more. The old woman sobbed, pressing her handkerchief against her mouth. Thomas reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

“You’re going through a terrible tragedy, Mrs Sands,” he said softly. “Please don’t let me interfere. I can wait.”

Luisa Sands nodded. She wiped at her eyes. Her daughter – couldn’t be anyone else, really, when the girl had the exact same eyes as the woman – led her away. Thomas waited until the entire congregation had exited the church before he followed them to the back of it – towards the cemetery.

What he saw at the heavy metal gates had him walking faster. He didn’t push through the crowd, walking around them instead. The priest was trying to keep away the reporters who were swarming, but he wasn’t succeeding very well. Elric Sands’s father Alphonse was keeping his face stiff as microphones and cameras were being shoved into his face. Thomas stepped closer, pushed a few reporters out of the way, and moved right in front of him.

He smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, addressing the reporters and ignoring the way both the priest’s and Alphonse Sands’s eyes widened with recognition. “These people, these men and women here, they have just lost a son. They have lost a brother. A valued, beloved member of their community.”

His smile widened until he was baring teeth. “Will you please have some humanity and allow them to grieve?”

One of them – someone from CNN, he noticed from the label on her microphone – pushed forward. “Mr Jefferson!” he called. “Why did you decide to take this case?”

That began a flood. Questions started being thrown at him, the reporters’ attentions redirected. They were so easy. Thomas started moving towards them, herding them away from the gates even as he brushed his hand against Alphonse Sands’s shoulders. He kept his smile on, making sure that the cameras all caught his teeth.

“Why does any lawyer take any case?” he asked rhetorically. “Why does anyone feel interested in anything? The better question, I believe, is: why are all of you here? Why does the media feed off tragedy? Have we all not learned throughout these years?”

When most of the congregation had gone past him, Thomas snapped his fingers. When he was sure that none of them were trying to speak to or over him, he cocked his head.

“Any statement I’d like to make will come from my office,” he said calmly. “But if you want me to say something…”

He leaned forward, eyes looking from one camera to another. “Fuck. Off.” He walked backwards with long strides until he was past the gates, and then slammed them shut in the reporters’ faces. Most of them tried to rush him. He stood there for a moment more, gave them another smile, and then turned away.

It wasn’t difficult for him to find the crowd of mourners again. He arrived just in time to see the pallbearers straightening again after they had placed the coffin into the grave. Alphonse Sands took up the first handful of dirt to scatter on top of the polished wood, then his wife and daughter. Thomas waited until all of Elric Sands’s family and friends had done what they needed to do before he moved forward.

Pulling off one black cashmere glove, he bent down and picked up a handful of dirt. When he had let the soil fall through his hands, he met the young girl’s eyes again. Then he bowed towards the family, retreated to the trees, and waited for them to come to him.

Four minutes and forty-three seconds. It was the girl who came to him. She stood there, barely reaching his shoulders in height but eyes full of fire and defiance. “Mama and Pa said that we’ll talk to you,” she said, and there was such obvious distaste in her tone that Thomas wanted to laugh. “After everything is over, you can come to our house.”

Well, his gamble had worked better than he’d thought it would. He gave her a soft smile, and inclined his head.

“Thank you,” he said.

She stared into his eyes. He held her gaze for long moments until she sighed, the tight line of her mouth softening. “Thanks,” she said, so quietly that Thomas had to lean in to hear her. “For the reporters. We knew it was going to happen, but we didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Thomas shook his head. “It’s the least I could do,” he told her. That wasn’t a lie. Not that anything he had said or done so far had been a lie. “But I think we should take a different route back to your house later on.”

“We…” she hesitated. “We don’t own a car.”

That, he expected. It was even on his pros and cons list. “I do,” he told her. “Is there any exit here that goes out towards Cook Street?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll meet you there then,” he said. He didn’t reach out to touch her, but instead smiled again. “Don’t worry about making me wait.”

When she nodded her acquiescence, he took out his phone, checked for the exit she mentioned, and headed there. The family met him nearly half an hour later, and Thomas didn’t try to strike up a conversation – he only led them towards his car.

Which had long scratches on both sides of it. 

“Mr Jefferson,” Luisa said, her eyes wide at the sight of the damage. “We’re so- we’re so sorry.”

Thomas’s lips twitched. He’d brought the five-door Jaguar not only because he expected to have passengers, but also because it was one of the cheapest he owned. He shook his head.

“Insurance will cover it,” he said, waving a hand. “It’s my mistake anyway. Please don’t worry about it.” He pulled open the door and waved them in.

They lived on Vernon Avenue. As they neared the house, Alphonse pointed out an elementary school. “That’s one of Elric’s old schools,” he said softly. Then, an empty lot: “That used to be the playground where he played when he was a kid.”

Thomas made soft, soothing noises. He kept driving. 

Their apartment was on the second floor of a four-storey off-white building. Thomas parked in front, right on the road itself – there weren’t any garages nearby – and he held the door open for them as they exited. The daughter had her arm around her mother again, practically holding her up as they entered the house, then up the stairs into the apartment proper.

 _Cramped_. Thomas, too used to Virginia’s sprawling fields and huge mansions, would never be used to how everything in New York seemed to be squashed together. It was almost claustrophobic. He shoved his hands into his pockets, avoiding the walls. Not that the walls could be seen anyway; bookshelves lined the apartment from corner to corner, filled with volumes labelled with names that Thomas didn’t recognise: Ursula le Guin, Michael Moorcock, Brandon Sanderson, N. K. Jemisin, Frank Herbert, Diana Wynne Jones.

Everything in this apartment probably cost less than the outfit he was wearing, and he actually made the effort to go cheap today.

The girl led her parents to the couch. She squeezed their shoulders before she headed to the kitchen. She brought a plastic folding chair from that room, set it down, and disappeared again. Thomas watched her for a moment before he took off his coat, draping it over the back of the chair – thankfully it was high-backed enough that the hem wasn’t touching the scratched hardwood floor – before he sat down.

“She’s a good girl, our Kalessin,” Luisa said. He nodded – finally he had a name to put to the face. Though, why did the Hispanics all had such _strange_ ones? There was someone he’d heard about having the name Usnavi or something, which made no sense as a name.

He pushed the thoughts out of his head and pasted a smile on his face. “She is,” he affirmed.

“Our Elric is a good boy too,” Luisa continued. Then she blinked, ducking her head. She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Was,” she corrected herself softly. “He _was_.”

“It was all that bastard Levi’s fault,” Alphonse burst out.

Thomas cocked his head. “Yes, Levi Weeks is being charged with first-degree murder,” he said, carefully.

“No, no,” Alphonse said. He opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head again.

“What Papa is trying to say,” Kalessin Sands spoke up, “is that Levi Weeks is a dirty, filthy bastard who led my brother down a path of sin when he has always been a good straight boy.”

She set four glasses down on the table and flashed Thomas a bland smile.

“Kalessin!” Luisa burst out. “That’s not what your Papa meant!”

Before Kalessin could protest – which she obviously wanted to – Thomas interrupted. “If you would rather speak in Spanish, I can understand it.” When their eyes all whirled towards him, he gave them a sheepish smile. “The dialect I learned was Spain’s, but if it’s more comfortable for you than English…” He trailed off, shrugging.

The family exchanged a glance. Kalessin sighed, and sat down on the arm of the couch.

“Elric had always been a good boy,” Luisa said, sounding far more confident and sure of herself in Spanish than she had in English. “He wasn’t the top of his class, but he always brought home good grades. He was really good with sports too.”

“He had a track scholarship to Columbia,” Alphonse added, sounding proud. “And he was always popular with the girls. I always told him that it was all the meat he ate when he was a kid.”

Thomas blinked. Meat? What did meat have to do with anything? Never mind; there was something more interesting to focus on.

“But he was in a relationship with a man,” he pointed out, carefully excising any form of judgment from his voice.

“That’s just Levi Weeks and his perversity,” Alphonse said, practically snarling. He shook his head hard. “He’s a good-for-nothing, ne’er-do-well sort. He doesn’t have a proper job and just lives off of his sister. What kind of man lives off a woman’s work, I ask you?”

Before Thomas could even open his mouth, Luisa added, “The first time Elric brought him home, we tried to be nice. We tried to give him a chance. Elric liked him, you see, and we love our son. Whoever makes our son happy, we’ll approve of, whether it is a man or a woman.”

That was rather contradictory to what they were implying, Thomas thought. He brushed away the thought; it wasn’t important.

“Did Levi Weeks make your son happy?”

“He did,” Kalessin said. Her voice was soft, and she was looking at her hands. “Elric was… happy.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Alphonse refuted immediately. “That’s not happiness, Kalessin. What we saw wasn’t happiness.”

Now this was interesting. Thomas leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What did you see?” he asked.

Luisa and Alphonse looked at each other. Then the mother said: “Dazed. He… looked dazed. He smiled a lot, but there was a look in his eyes like… like he wasn’t quite _there_. We kept having to repeat things before he heard them. One time, he even walked into a wall.”

“We thought it was drugs at first,” Alphonse continued. “But we know what drug addicts look like; our church helps a lot of them. He wasn’t behaving like one. But he wasn’t acting like himself either.”

“What do you mean?”

“My boy’s eyes were always bright,” Luisa said. She squeezed her eyes shut, and dabbed at them with the handkerchief. “Very alert. He saw everything around him, you see, and he tried to help everyone he saw.”

That explained why there were so many people at his funeral and wake, then. Thomas filed that information away for consideration later. It would certainly be useful for riling up the jury about the loss that Levi Weeks caused.

“But after he met Levi…” she hesitated. “He started getting selfish. Started saying that he didn’t have time for all the people he helped before. Started saying that he needed to _prioritise_.”

“That was not like him,” Alphonse said, shaking his head. “We taught our children to take Christ as an example. Service is the greatest good in the world, and whatever we have… we must give. Elric always believed in that, completely. But Levi…”

“He ruined him somehow,” Luisa said. “He ruined my son, and then he _killed him_!”

A sob caught in her throat. She burst into tears, turning around and burying her face into her husband’s shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her hair, murmuring something quiet and soothing as he stroked her back. Thomas looked away; it was too intimate a scene for him to interfere with.

His heart ached. He pushed it away. He was working, now.

“I’m sorry if the next question hurts you, but it’s one I have to ask,” he started, keeping his voice soft. “Did you know that your son’s relationship with Levi Weeks had a BDSM dimension to it?”

Alphonse froze. He squeezed his eyes shut. Slowly, he shook his head. “No,” he said hoarsely. “He never… he never told us such a thing.”

“Elric used to tell us everything,” Luisa sobbed, voice muffled but words still clear.

“Was there anything,” he said, and repeated, “ _anything at all_ , that would have clued you in that your son would willingly participate in BDSM?”

He looked directly at Kalessin. She met his gaze, and then stared down at her hands. She didn’t say a word.

“No.” Alphonse let go of his wife. He stood up and slammed his hand on the coffee table. “No, and I’ll not have anyone insinuating that Elric, that _my son_ , would have taken part in something so dirty, something so _filthy_. Especially not in _my house_.”

Thomas raised both his hands in surrender immediately. He remained seated. “I’m sorry,” he said, keeping his voice calm even as a part of him shrieked in triumph. “Please understand that I have to ask the question for the sake of seeking justice for your son.”

Alphonse stared at him. He sat down.

“Why?” 

It was Kalessin who spoke. She was looking at Thomas now, eyes narrowed. When Thomas didn’t answer immediately, she leaned forward. “Why did you decide to take up my brother’s case? I know that you don’t usually take cases – you’re the D.A.; stepping into the courtroom should be below your paygrade.”

“Don’t be rude to our guest, Kalessin!” Alphonse barked.

Shaking his head, Thomas smiled. “It’s alright. I expected the question.”

He hesitated for precisely two seconds before he sighed, running a hand through his curls. “You’re right – I don’t usually take on cases myself. But this case struck very close to my heart.” He shook his head. “I’m sure you already know, but Levi Weeks is far wealthier than Elric. And if there is anything I detest…” He paused for dramatic effect.

“It is when a rich man uses the privileges he has been undeservedly given to abuse another. Especially in an intimate relationship.”

Before Kalessin could speak, he held up a hand. “There’s also the fact that I don’t _trust_ anyone else with this case,” he continued. “Don’t get me wrong – I have a lot of faith in the abilities of those in my office; they wouldn’t have been hired otherwise. But a case like this, involving BDSM… It treads into murky legal waters. Any mistakes made by the prosecution could lead to the path of justice being obscured.”

Pausing again, he dug deep within himself for the right words. This was beyond needing to convince them. 

“And your son deserves justice. I believe in that strongly enough to step into the courtroom again even though, as Ms Sands here says, it’s ‘below my paygrade’.”

The three of them exchanged a glance; Luisa even lifted her head up in order to facilitate that. Thomas waited. He tried to not fidget. It was always difficult, but if there was anything he had learned throughout his career, the best lies were the ones with a seed of truth. Though he wasn’t lying. Not about anything he said.

Then the parents turned towards him. “Thank you,” Alphonse said, sounding choked. “I know… I know that nothing will bring my son back, but if you can stop Levi Weeks from being able to ruin another person’s son like he did mine…”

“I will do my utmost,” Thomas promised. He held out his hand. As he shook Alphonse’s, and then Luisa’s, he noticed that Kalessin was now staring at her knees.

Standing up, he nodded to them. “Please, if there is anything that you think of that will help me get justice for Elric,” he paused, “or if there’s anything I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” He fished out his card holder from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and took out the one with his personal extension. 

“You don’t even have to speak to the receptionist if you call this number,” he said, and handed the card over to Alphonse.

Kalessin stood up. “Let me walk you to your car,” she said. It was such an abrupt shift from her previous motionlessness that her parents stared at her. Thomas smiled, inclining his head. 

“Thank you.”

They left the apartment together. Thomas didn’t try to prompt her – he didn’t need to, because the moment they exited the house, Kalessin turned to him.

“Why did you come here instead of making us go to your office?” she demanded.

Well, that wasn’t what he expected. But he could deal with it. 

“Like you said, I’m the D.A.,” he shrugged. “My office is an institution that represents law. Law and justice are not always the same thing. Besides… I believed that you and your parents would be more comfortable talking in your own home than in a cold, strange place.”

She stared deep into his eyes for a moment. Then she seemed to come to some sort of decision, nodding to herself. Then she grabbed him by the sleeve and practically dragged him towards the car, away from the house itself. When he stopped beside it, she shook her head, waiting until he opened the doors and both of them were inside.

“Levi’s a complete idiot,” she said, words spilling out of her in a rush, all in English. “But he’s not as bad as my parents think.”

It was difficult to turn around in the car to face her, no matter how much legroom the Jaguar offered, but he did so anyway, leaning his shoulder against the window.

“Why do you think that?” he asked.

Kalessin rubbed her knuckles over her nose. “I knew… I knew about the BDSM thing,” she said, voice incredibly soft. “There was one time I walked in while Elric was changing, and there was these… these lashes on his back.”

Thomas viciously shoved down the urge to crow. He pasted on a gentle smile, and nodded encouragingly.

“So I asked him what the hell was going on, if Levi’s abusing him…” She shook her head. “He got so mad at me. He said I didn’t know what I was talking about. He said…” She hesitated. “He said that he asked for the lashes. He said that Levi was crying when he gave them.”

“Crying,” Thomas repeated.

She nodded. “I looked up BDSM on the Internet,” she continued. “I didn’t quite believe Elric. I thought he was going insane. But… some of the stuff I heard… It’s like. Elric had a lot on his shoulders, you know? He wasn’t just the oldest son, but he was also very, very smart. There was a lot of pressure on him to be the one guy who gets out of our _barrio_. Our neighbourhood.”

“I know what _barrio_ means,” Thomas assured. 

“So there was a lot of pressure on him,” she kept going as if she hadn’t heard. “And what I read, and what he _said_ as well… Levi took care of him and protected him. Elric said… With Levi, when they were… they were doing what they did, he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to take care of anything. He could just _be._ ”

There was something weird happening in Thomas’s chest, as if Kalessin’s words had somehow formed into a fist that reached past his ribs to close around his heart. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. He clenched his hand, crinkling up his black slacks, and forced an exhale through his teeth.

“Did you believe him?” He shook his head. “No, did you believe that what he said was really what was happening?”

Raising her hands, Kalessin rubbed her palms over her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, sounding frustrated and confused and terribly young. “I really don’t. I want to believe him, but he’s _dead_ and it’s Levi’s fault. And Mama’s been crying for days, and Pa… and Pa has been so angry. They have both been praying. I heard them. They prayed that Elric would be forgiven for all the sins he was led down by an evil man to do. I want to believe like they do, that Levi’s evil, but I met him and I…”

Her breath hitched.

Thomas placed both hands onto her shoulders. He didn’t hold her, just simply steadied her there as she started to shake. Her fingers clawed at his wrists, and she pulled his hands close, pressing her face against his knuckles.

“You said,” she said, voice unsteady, tears wetting his skin. “You said you want justice for Elric. But I- I don’t know. I think Elric would’ve wanted justice for Levi, too? He loved Levi a lot. I know he did. But he’s dead, and I don’t know what actually is _going on_.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Thomas said. It had been years since he had to comfort a distraught family member, so his comforting voice was a little rusty. But he was making a good try. “I’m not here just to seek justice. I’m here to figure out the truth about what happened.”

“But you said…” she lifted her head, eyes wide and confused.

“I told your parents what would make them feel better,” he told her. “They are grieving. I’m helping to give them something to hold onto so they can feel better. That’s what I’m here for, too.”

She sobbed again. He let her, rubbing his knuckles over her forehead gently. She was so young, far too young to have to hold the burden of her brother’s secrets and her parents’ grief. Too young to have learned how to control her own so easily that it took her less than two minutes to stop crying.

“Have to go back,” she said. She scrubbed at her face. Thomas pulled out the white handkerchief from his jacket’s front pocket and handed it to her. 

“Keep it,” he said. “You can give it back to me the next time we meet.”

Looking at him for a moment, she nodded. Then she did something he didn’t expect: she threw herself across the gearshift, wrapping her arms around his chest.

“Thank you, Mr Jefferson,” she said. “You’re a very good man.”

He patted her hair awkwardly. “I’m doing my job the best I can,” he said. “You have to do yours too, alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, pulling back. Her face was splotchy even beneath the tanned skin. She gave him a shivery smile. Then she slipped out of the car.

Thomas watched as she went through the gate of the house, then up the stairs. When he could no longer see her, and she couldn’t see him, he exited the car. He stared at the neighbourhood: the run-down buildings and the stench of poverty that covered every single inch. His finger traced the long scratch on the Jaguar’s paintwork. He swallowed back a laugh.

Then he stepped back inside and floored the gas until he was out of Bushwick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elric is named after the main character of Michael Moorcock’s _Elric of Melniboné_ series, and his sister Kalessin is named after a dragon in Ursula le Guin’s _Earthsea_ series. Their parents are sci-fi/fantasy nerds. Jefferson is a piece of shit in many, many ways. His opinions 100% do not reflect my own. 
> 
> (Jefferson is my favourite character in the entire musical. Followed by Burr. The way I define ‘favourite’ is less ‘I like them’ or ‘I relate to them’ than ‘they fascinate me so let me peel them open layer by layer until I expose their raw, bleeding innards to the sun and dance in them.’ Take that as you will.)
> 
> I am actually not from New York. I’m not even American. I’m also not a lawyer. I’ve just done a ridiculous amount of research for this fic. But research doesn’t actually cover every base, so if I get anything wrong, please tell me immediately. I’ll fix it.
> 
> By the way, I love everyone who has commented so far. So much. I'll reply to all of you properly today or tomorrow when I have some time. But you've all made my week.


	4. has its eyes on you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More perspectives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Nothing except for the blanket warning that this fic is a mind-screw in many, many ways.

_January 15, Friday_

It was a warm winter day, the chill not nearly enough to seep through Sally’s down jacket into the college hoodie underneath. Though it was still a weekday, the unseasonable weather had the queue for the Met crawling around the block.

“Lucky that we got here early, wasn’t it?”

Jimmy was smoking one of his cloves – he switched over from what he called ‘proper cigarettes’ when he moved from Virginia to New York five years ago, because the latter were too expensive. It smelled sweet, but the curl of smoke from his mouth was a familiar enough sight that Sally couldn’t bring herself to look straight at his face.

He was the reason why Sally was here at the Met today. They went in to see the paintings because, as Jimmy put it, “I’ve been here for five years, I still haven’t seen the insides of that thing when the tourists have, and you’ve got that student card so we’d get a discount.” The Met had a ‘pay what you will’ system, but Sally’s card allowed them to get through without paying at all or feeling guilt about it.

“Yeah,” she murmured. She took a bite of the hotdog he bought for her from one of the stalls around the entrance of the museum. “Though you still owe me for waking me up at eight in the morning on a no-class day.”

Snorting, he flicked his cigarette towards a particularly brave pigeon. It squawked and flew away, and he looked at her, grinning. “You’ll have to get used to working on little sleep anyway, girlie,” he said. “Doctors keep real long hours.”

Sally ducked away from the hand threatening to ruffle her hair, shoving an elbow into his side. He yelped before making a grab for her with both arms; she couldn’t dodge without dropping her food, so she let herself be captured and pulled against his chest.

“Don’t be mean to your brother,” Jimmy said. Sally raised both eyebrows, and took a large bite of her hotdog, chewing obnoxiously loud with her mouth open right in front of his face.

“That _disgusting_ , girlie,” he laughed, head tipping backwards. But he didn’t let her go, so Sally’s smile softened before she leaned back a little more against him, resting her head against his arm.

“Where did you think I learned those manners from, huh?” she teased, nudging him with an elbow.

“It ain’t from me, that’s for sure,” Jimmy snorted, one hand sneaking under her jacket to poke her on the ribs. Sally shoved the rest of her food into her mouth to muffle her squeak, wriggling out of his grasp.

“Must’ve been Robbie, or even Pete,” he continued. She chewed even louder in front of him, and he shoved a hand into her face, pushing her away. “Definitely Robbie. He’s always the grossest.”

Swallowing, Sally laughed. “Robbie’d be pissed if he heard you talk ‘bout him like that,” she said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. She dipped her voice lower, “He’s the _oldest_.”

“Oldest and grossest, yeah,” he rolled his eyes. “Maybe you learned it from Pete instead. Definitely wasn’t me.”

Sally shook her head. “It’s definitely you,” she told him, tart. She kicked her foot against his ankle just once. “Hey, have they been talking to you much, lately?”

“Same old, same old,” Jimmy shrugged. He crossed his legs. “Pete’s still whining ‘bout how he doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do once he graduates because he’s bored as shit with his degree. Told him that he should’ve gotten something more interesting than accountancy.”

“Not that he could’ve chosen much else,” Sally pointed out. “It was the only scholarship that was offered to him.”

“You always side with him,” Jimmy said, poking her nose. Sally scrunched up her face, sticking out her tongue at her second oldest brother and making him laugh.

“Anyway,” Jimmy continued. “Robbie’s fine. Think he’s getting a big head, being a bigshot Computer Engineer in Silicon Valley,” he said, capital letters clear in his voice. He nudged her with an elbow. “Hey, you’ve got time over the next few months? Wanna go west and poke some holes into him?”

Sally froze. There was no way she could leave New York. Not right now. Not when she had to leave her phone switched on at all times, and be ready to drop everything and head to Westchester when she saw a particular name flashing on the screen. Not when… She bit the inside of her cheek.

“Don’t think so,” she said, and tried to give Jimmy a smile.

Something must’ve been wrong with it, because Jimmy’s eyes softened. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close and pressing a kiss on top of her head.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he murmured. “You gotta keep your grades up, gotta make sure the rich asshole doesn’t start thinking that his investment isn’t worth it. I’ve been there before, yeah? I know, girlie.”

All Jimmy knew was that Sally received a special, one-of-a-kind scholarship from one Thomas Jefferson, husband of the only legitimate child of their bastard father. Jimmy had even met Jefferson; had shaken his hand and thanked him for providing the money for his baby sister’s education. He didn’t know the details; Sally didn’t want him to know the details. That was part of her deal with Jefferson.

Her brothers were all scholarship students in Ivy League colleges. She watched them fighting to keep their grades up, fighting to polish their interview skills, fighting to be better than everyone else just to get a proper chance to rise beyond their circumstances. They never told her to do the same: Robbie even told her once – only half-joking – that if she didn’t like studying then her brothers could take care of her once they succeeded. But she wanted to make her own way. 

She was making her own way. On her own, without help, just like them.

“But think of it this way, yeah?” Jimmy was saying, his hand stroking over her back. “You get that education, you get that medical degree, you get people calling you ‘Dr Sally Hemings’, and he’d be the one begging you for help.”

Sally couldn’t help it: she laughed. Bitter and harsh, piercingly sharp in her throat. She pulled away from Jimmy’s arms before leaning in again, kissing him on the cheek. 

“Yeah,” she said. This time, she tried harder to make her smile sincere. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

“There we go, then,” Jimmy grinned. He squeezed her upper arms with both hands. She looked at her brother, the one who went all the way to Harvard for architecture and got a job immediately after graduation because of how good he was despite the state of the economy five years ago, and squeezed his wrists. He would never know, she promised herself again. She wouldn’t tell him; wouldn’t risk losing the respect he had for her.

After a moment, Jimmy sighed. He shifted on the stone edge of the fountain, pulling her close until she was leaning against his shoulder while he pulled out another clove cigarette. He lit it.

“Talking ‘bout that bastard,” Jimmy said. “Something’s weird ‘bout the case that he’s taking.”

Sally blinked. Her instinctive response was to yell, to tell Jimmy to stop talking about Jefferson, or even around him, but she shoved it down, taking a deep breath instead.

“Which one?”

“Levi Weeks,” he said, blowing out smoke hard.

Weeks? Sally lifted her head, eyes widening. “You mean… your _boss_?”

“Her brother,” Jimmy corrected. He looked at her. “You really don’t know? It’s all over the news.”

She shook her head. “School’s been busy,” she said. This time, it really wasn’t a lie. She had to scramble to keep up with her classes just so she could spend today with her brother.

“Homicide case,” he sighed, rubbing his knuckles over his forehead. “ _Supposedly_ Levi killed his fiancé. Electrocuted him to death, or so the papers say.”

“That’s,” Sally started. She pulled away, staring at Jimmy with wide eyes. “That’s a _horrible_ way to die.” 

A couple of months ago, one of her professors digressed during his lectures to start talking about the death penalty. He said – and she remembered very clearly – that the electric chair was judged to be inhumane because criminals who died on it took ten minutes before they expired. Human bodies were hardy things, that professor said. 

“Pretty much,” Jimmy sighed. He shook his head, taking another drag and blowing the smoke upwards into the air. “No one really knows what happened – we’d have to wait until the trial – but… But I know Levi. He’s not the sort who’d do something like this.”

“Why?” Sally asked.

“He’s…” Jimmy paused. “How’d I put it? He’s a real charmer. A real nice guy, always with smiles for everyone in the office. He cares ‘bout people. He’s the kind of guy who’d ask the security guard at the door ‘bout his family and actually listen and remember it, you know what I’m saying?”

Nodding slowly, Sally frowned. “That doesn’t seem like a guy who would end up killing someone.”

“That’s the thing,” Jimmy said. He flicked more ash towards the pigeons. “And it’s like… He travels a lot. Don’t know what for, never asked. But whenever he goes travelling, he’d bring back presents. Small things, sometimes useful, most of the time not. Magnets from Monte Carlo, sandals from San Jose, keychains from Reno, t-shirts with stupid slogans from Las Vegas…” He shook his head. “Best were those sweet biscuits things he bought for us all the way from Macau.”

Taking one last drag from his cigarette, Jimmy tossed the butt onto the ground, grinding it out before picking it up again. “He remembers us, you know?” he said, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Always does. Not just the architects, but practically every single person in the building.” He ran a hand over the top of his bald head, then scratched the back of his neck.

“Can’t see a guy who’d do that going off to kill somebody,” he said. “’Specially not his own lover.”

“Maybe it was an accident?” Sally offered. She tossed a few breadcrumbs towards the pigeons – they were starting to get desperate, and she felt bad for them for being the constant target of her brother’s burning cigarette ash. A swarm immediately landed around her feet, and she tucked her legs in so she wouldn’t kick them without meaning to.

“Probably,” Jimmy shrugged. His frown deepened, however. “The charge laid on him was first-degree murder, though, so…”

And Jefferson was the prosecutor, Sally completed for him mentally. She didn’t know anything about Jefferson’s job – she did her best to keep away from that part of his life, because he was too much in hers already – but she supposed that he must be a pretty good lawyer to get the position of District Attorney.

“Well, whatever happens… it’s not really your fault,” she said. It wasn’t something helpful, but she wasn’t really sure why he brought it up.

“I know that, but…” Jimmy bit his lip. He turned towards her. “D’you think I should ask Ms Ezrine,” his boss, she knew, “if I could help in some way? Serve as some kind of character witness or something?”

“No!” Sally practically yelped, the word bursting out of her before she could even form it properly in her mind. She shook her head hard. “No, no, no. That’s a bad idea.”

“Why?” Jimmy blinked. “If I think he didn’t do it, I should do something to make sure that people don’t start thinking he did, yeah?”

“That’s a _bad_ idea,” Sally repeated. She leaned forward, grabbing her brother by the forearms. “You said that you _think_ he didn’t do it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy nodded. He looked confused. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Sally’s grip tightened. “Look, you’d be throwing yourself out to wolves if you put yourself out there,” she said.

He would be throwing himself in front of a _very specific_ wolf, one whom Sally didn’t want at _all_ to get near any member of her family. Not when she had experienced for herself what he could do. Not when she knew exactly how cruel and manipulative he was capable of being when he was barely cognizant of himself, when he wasn’t being entirely purposeful about it – how much more so could he be when he _was_? How much worse could he be when it was part of his _job_?

She shook her head, pushing away the thoughts. “You’re not sure,” she said. “If you’re not sure ‘bout it, then you’ll be torn apart. Putting yourself out there isn’t a good idea.”

“But I have to say something,” Jimmy protested. “He’s a good guy. Heck, he’s practically a friend.”

“No, no,” Sally said again. “I know that you want to help. But think ‘bout it this way: law courts don’t decide whether someone did something or not based on whether someone thinks they did it or not.” Or, at least, she assumed that was what they did – it seemed logical. “So you wouldn’t be helping very much. And if… if you did your best, and he still gets convicted because of other things…”

Hesitating for a moment, she drove in the knife. “Your boss might think it’s your fault, that you didn’t try hard enough, and fire you.”

Jimmy blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “That’s,” he started. He stared at her. “That’s…” He trailed off, then let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

“I’d like to say that Ms Ezrine won’t do such a thing,” he said. “But who knows what she’d do if her brother’s found guilty of murder.”

“Exactly,” Sally said. She let go of him, stifling a sigh of relief. “You don’t want to risk that.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy laughed again. “I like my job where it is just fine.”

He paused for a moment before he drew his arm around her again, pulling her close and pressing a kiss against her temple. “Thanks, girlie,” he told her, smiling against her skin. “You’ve always had the most sense out of all of us.”

“That’s because I listen to Momma more than the rest of you do,” she said.

Jimmy snickered. “I gotta tell Momma ‘bout this,” he said. “She told me, ‘You gotta look after your sister, Jimmy.’ But look who’s looking after who now.”

Sally pulled away so that he could see her raising an eyebrow. “Funny,” she said, practically drawling. “She told me to take care of you, because,” she slipped fully into their mother’s thick working-class Virginian accent: “Yer brother’s an idiot at times, Sally, so you gotta smack some sense into him when he has none.”

Her mother said the same of Sally’s other brothers, too, but Jimmy was the worst out of the lot. Her brothers trusted in the goodness of people; trusted in the fairness of the world and that they would be rewarded if they did what they thought was right. Sally knew better: her mother told her things that she never told her brothers; showed the girl the truths behind the lies the boys received.

Betty Hemings never wanted her only daughter to become like her, after all. Sally always understood. That was why she hadn’t gone home to see her mother last summer.

“Anyway,” Jimmy said, pulling back. “Wanna go elsewhere? I’m sick of this place.”

“It was pretty disappointing, wasn’t it?” Sally asked, sliding into the change of topic with another bitten-back sigh of relief.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Don’t know what it’s about. Guggenheim is so much better.”

Sally snorted, standing up. She brushed crumbs off of her jacket and her heavy, woollen skirt before punching her brother on the shoulder. “That’s because you’re an architect and that’s what you like.”

Jimmy huffed. “My point still stands,” he said. He stuck out his arm, and Sally slid her hand into the crook of his elbow as they started walking.

“Want to go to Guggenheim?” she asked, looking up to him. “My card’ll give us a discount there too. I’ll even let you talk my ear off.”

Throwing his head back, Jimmy laughed loudly enough to make a couple of passers-by turn to look. He grinned, leaning down to give her hair a loud, smacking kiss.

“My sister is so kind,” he mocked. But there was a light in his eyes that told her that he believed his own words wholeheartedly.

She smiled, squeezing his arm lightly. She stared at the ground, and tried to ignore that lingering ghost of a knot in her stomach.

No, she would never tell him.

***

_January 16, Saturday_

As part of the Crime Scene Unit, Mulligan wasn’t technically posted to any particular precinct in New York. But when Alexander received the text that told him to “meet me at the police station,” he knew that Mulligan meant the 24th Precinct; the station that had first held Levi Weeks when he was arrested. It was the advantage of having known the detective for over a decade.

Mulligan was outside the station when Alexander arrived – on foot, after taking the subway. He was seated on the roof of a black car that might or might not be his, feet planted squarely on the hood with a cigarette between his lips. Judging by the look on his face, Alexander knew that the news was going to be bad.

“Yo,” he greeted. Mulligan looked at him, nodding, and he shifted over. Alexander took that as invitation to climb up the car himself, sitting next to him with his backpack between his knees. He took out his phone, waggling it in Mulligan’s face.

“Mind if I record?” he asked; a courtesy he usually didn’t extend to most people.

And Mulligan knew that too, because he laughed. “What if I say no?” he asked. 

Alexander’s lips twitched up into a slight grin, and he tapped on his phone’s screen to let it start recording. “Then I’d just ignore it,” he said.

“I can arrest you for that, you know.”

“That’s not your department,” Alexander shot back. He grinned. “It’s more of mine, actually. You wanna try your luck?”

“Nah,” Mulligan said. He bumped a broad shoulder against Alexander’s, gentle enough to not push him off of the car’s roof, before he took the last puff of his cigarette and tossed it over the side. Alexander refrained from making a comment about how Mulligan would have to arrest himself for littering, too.

“Anyway, I’m going to tell you something that’s not public knowledge yet,” Mulligan said. “And probably won’t be public knowledge at all, if Monroe gets his way.”

James Monroe, Commanding Officer of the C.S.U. Division of the NYPD, famous for keeping evidence under lock and key until it was sent by express mail to the D.A.’s office without letting any defence lawyers get their hands on it, no matter the kind of obstruction of justice that would cause. Alexander grimaced; he never understood how a New York native like Monroe had ended up being the lapdog of a Virginian like Jefferson.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A bright spark here,” Mulligan jerked his thumb backwards to the precinct, “decided to check on Elric Sands’s financial records.” He paused, setting his hands on top of his knees and turning towards Alexander fully. 

“Last year, on December 6th, he took out a life insurance policy,” he continued. “Levi Weeks is the payee.”

Alexander blinked. “Oh.”

“That’s not all of it,” Mulligan shook his head. “You know how it is that our bright spark ended up figuring that out? Because I cracked through Sands’s phone. The text messages there…”

He drew out another cigarette, twirling it around his fingertips instead of lighting it. Then he took out his own phone, tapped on it several times, and passed it over to Alexander.

“Took screenshots. You better read them yourself.”

>   
>  _November 17, 2015_
> 
> **Darling:** Sorry I upset you last night. But my point still stands, sweetheart. I’m not saying all these things to upset you. Just that… you gotta start thinking about the future, you know?  
>  **You:** C’mon, now. I’m barely twenty-one. I’m not going to drop dead any time soon. What could happen?  
>  **Darling:** You never know, honey.  
>  **You:** Is it about the stuff on news?  
>  **Darling:** Only part of it.  
>  **Darling:** Look, it’s just… I know the kind of pressure your parents are putting on you. I’m just thinking that this might just end up easing the load on your shoulders.  
>  **You:** Them getting a bunch of money only when I’m dead isn’t very reassuring.  
>  **Darling:** I’m not saying that it is. Just that it’ll be help ease you a bit if you know that they’ll be taken care of if you die. Morbid as it sounds.  
>  **You:** What is I don’t want to give them the money?  
>  **Darling:** Well, you can give it to me.  
>  **Darling:** JOKING. I’M JOKING. I don’t want the money. I’d really rather have you than money.  
>  **Darling:** You know I don’t need money anyway.  
>  **Darling:** Elric?  
>  **Darling:** C’mon, I’ll stop talking about this if it really pisses you off that badly. I’m sorry, honey.  
>  **You:** We’ll talk about this tonight, okay?  
>  **You:** I’m not mad at you. Just needed to think.

The last message had two blue ticks on it: Levi Weeks read it. The next message in the conversation log was on something else entirely – some sort of vacation plans without dates.

“I don’t see how this is incriminating,” Alexander said, blinking as he handed Mulligan his phone back.

“Might not be, but…” Mulligan sighed again, tapping his fingers on top of both knees. “We’re still running the checks, but I can bet you a million dollars that I don’t have that Sands ended up meeting with an insurance agent a couple of weeks, or less, after this conversation.”

Alexander shook his head, frowning. “If Jefferson tries to use this to spin that Weeks killed Sands for the sake of money… It’s not going to work. Weeks is rich.”

“That’s the thing,” Mulligan said. He ran a hand over his short curls, and shoved his unlit cigarette into his mouth. “He isn’t.”

“What?”

“He’s a trust fund baby alright,” Mulligan answered, voice muffled as he lit his cigarette. “But we’re checking his financial records, too, and all of it is gone. It has been gone for three years.

Levi Weeks’s voice, echoing from last week: _I met Elric three years ago…_ Alexander swallowed. His hands clenched in his lap.

Mulligan’s eyes flickered over to those whitening knuckles, and his lips twisted into a wry, mirthless smile. “It gets worse, Alexander,” he said, blowing out smoke. “His apartment is a rental, and we haven’t found anything in his financial records that shows him paying his rent. What we did find is a monthly deposit of fifteen thousand from Ezrine Weeks, and it’s all gone by the end of the month. Cash withdrawals. No idea where the hell it’s all going.”

Red-rimmed eyes on a bed. Tears. _I liked to make him feel good when he was good. Does that make sense?_ Alexander stared down at his hands.

“Still might not mean anything,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

“Might not, yeah,” Mulligan nodded. “He’s basically broke and living off of his sister’s money and kindness, he convinced his fiancé to take out a life insurance policy and joked that he should put his name down as payee… Yeah. It might not mean anything.”

There was no trace of mockery in his tone, but there was no need for any.

Alexander shook his head. He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling the strands out of its tight ponytail. Then he tied it back again, using that excuse to think. There were still arguments he could make. There was still plenty he could say.

“Circumstantial evidence,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s all circumstantial evidence. It doesn’t prove guilt, especially not for murder of the first degree.”

“Mm,” Mulligan hummed. “Your expertise, not mine.

“Do you believe he’s guilty?” Alexander threw at him.

Mulligan shrugged expansively, raising his hands up in surrender. “Fuck if I know,” he said around his cigarette. Then he plucked it out from his mouth. “From one angle, it looks like he is. From another angle, it looks like he isn’t. Not my job to judge, you see.”

“What’s the angle that looks like he isn’t?” Alexander pounced.

“The angle that says that, if he’s planning on killing Sands, it’s too _damned fucking obvious_ a method,” Mulligan said, blowing out smoke through his lips. “You read the report, right? He was pretty much caught with Sands’s blood metaphorically dripping off of his hands. In a case like that, it’s either manslaughter, second-degree, or first-degree. There’s no way he’s getting off scot-free.”

“There is,” Alexander refuted immediately. “Sands signed a contract. The contract stated that he consented willingly to what was done to him, and he knew all of the dangers.” He’d read it. He’d practically memorised it.

Mulligan stared at him. “Do you think,” he said slowly, “Jefferson will actually let that contract hold up in court?”

Jefferson who, just two years prior, argued that a non-disclosure agreement, drafted by a whole team of attorneys according to strict legal procedures, could not have legal standing. And won.  
_  
You keep your promise to Ezrine. And then I’ll consider it. I’ll really consider it._

“Fuck,” Alexander said. He resisted the urge to bury his face into his hands. 

Patting him between the shoulders, Mulligan shook his head. “This case is a headache and a half,” he said. “I don’t envy your position right now.”

Alexander pressed his palms into his eyes. He knew, he _knew_ , completely and utterly, that Levi Weeks wasn’t guilty. There was no way he could be. Elric Sands had agreed; he had _agreed_ to what was being done to him. He’d accepted the consequences and there was even a signature on a piece of paper that proved it. But…

How the hell could he prove that to everyone else? How could he prove that to a _jury_ , none of whom, he was sure, knew and much less respected the etiquette and ethics of a relationship between a sub and his Dom?

“I have to go,” he said abruptly. He needed to get back to his office. He needed to think. 

But before he could even jump off of the car, Mulligan caught his arm. “Hey,” the older man said, dark eyes boring into Alexander’s. “Laurens and I are planning to get drinks next weekend. You want to come along?”

He paused. “It’s been a while since you’ve come out with us.”

Mulligan was being kind, Alexander knew. ‘A while’ wasn’t nearly strong enough a word to describe the length of time that had passed since he’d spent time properly with his friends. ‘Years’ was a better word. Even before Lafayette had returned to France.

“Can’t,” he blurted out, shaking his head hard enough that some strands of hair escaped from his ponytail. He brushed them away from his face. “I’m busy.”

“You’re always busy,” Mulligan said. His grip tightened on Alexander’s bicep.

Alexander pulled away from his grip, picking up his backpack and slipping off of the car’s hood. “I can’t,” he repeated. “Sorry. I’ll… I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Mulligan said. There was a smile on his lips, but it was a mirthless thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll see me when I text you again about having more info that’ll help your case.” 

Fighting down a wince, Alexander nodded. He shouldered his backpack and nodded. “Probably,” he said, and turned away.

He wasn’t trying to run away, he told himself. But he knew that he was walking too quickly anyway.

***

_June 3, 2006, Saturday_

The first time Sally met Jefferson, she was nine years old. She didn’t notice him much.

They – Momma, Robbie, Jimmy, Pete, and her – were all on Father’s estate; the estate that they weren’t supposed to go to without Certain Unavoidable Reasons, as Sally once heard Father say. This was one of those, Sally supposed: John Wayles was dead. He’d died the Sunday before, on May 28, but it had taken a week before his funeral could be arranged; before everyone important could fly down to attend it.

Sally knew that she should be sad: her father was dead. But she didn’t really know her father, and he wasn’t a very good man. She told Momma that, because she didn’t understand just why they should all wear black and pretend to be sad when they weren’t really mourning; when Pete had punched his fist into the air when he heard that Father was dead and Robbie had picked her up the moment he came through the door from the airport, laughing and saying that they were free. She didn’t understand why they needed to pretend when she _knew_ that the only reason why they were here at the funeral was to wait for it to be over so they could know about Father’s will; so they knew if there would be money left for them.

Momma was crying into her handkerchief; quiet, subtle sobs. Sally squeezed her hand as hard as she could, and looked away.

That was when she saw her. 

The woman wasn’t very tall, barely coming up to the shoulders of the man standing by her side with an arm around her shoulders. She had beautiful hair; tight, ebony-dark curls that went past her ears. She was crying, and she didn’t have makeup on, but she was very, very pretty: full lips, high cheekbones, and a pair of large, dark eyes made even larger by tears.

There weren’t pictures of her around the house, but Sally knew exactly who she was looking at. That was Martha, Father’s only legitimate child; the only one with his surname. The man standing beside her must be Mr Jefferson, her husband; the executor of Father’s will. His hair was curly, too, Sally noted, and ignored him.

Martha had such beautiful hands. Thin wrists and long fingers; Sally heard that she played the piano – was that how her hands had become so beautiful? Sally tried to not linger on her figure, the broad shoulders and full breasts that tapered down to a small waist, because she knew it was rude. Momma always told her to not look at women like that.

It was easy to forget about the funeral when Martha was there. Sally kissed her Father perfunctorily, barely looking at his face. He wasn’t very important; he had never really been part of her life anyway.

Later, after Father’s coffin had been lowered into the ground, Martha came over to her mother. Sally was chased away to be with her brothers, so she couldn’t hear what they said. But she watched as Martha wrapped her arms around Momma, patted her back, and let her cry on her shoulder even though she was shorter. She said something that made Momma mouth ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’ over and over again.

Even though she wasn’t supposed to, Sally was still staring when Martha came over to her. She was short, but still significantly taller than Sally, who had always been small for her age. Martha smiled at her.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice was soft and melodious, as if she was singing instead of speaking. “You’re Sally, right?”

“Yes,” Sally nodded. “And you’re Martha. I know.”

Martha laughed. It was a proper Southern belle laugh, hidden behind her hand and less a sound than a look in her eyes. She reached out a hand. “Now that we’re properly introduced to each other, will you walk with me, Sally?”

Sally looked at her hand. She looked up to Martha’s face. She was still smiling. Sally nodded. “Okay,” she said, and took the hand.

The older woman took her out of the cemetery at the edge of the Wayles estate, heading back towards the main house. 

“I never got to meet any of you before Papa died,” Martha said softly. It took Sally a moment to realise that ‘Papa’ meant Father. “I didn’t even know you guys existed until Papa was in the hospital and Tom had to take over his affairs.”

“Tom?” Sally blinked. “Who’s that?”

“My husband,” Martha said. She stopped walking, turning around. Her hand on Sally’s shoulder urged her to turn, too, and she pointed towards the tall man with the curls. He was talking to some other people who attended the funeral. “That one.”

“Okay,” Sally said. 

“Anyway,” Martha shook her head. Her curls brushed over her cheeks. Sally immediately decided that she wanted her hair to be that exact length. She probably wasn’t going to grow up to be as pretty as Martha, but just a little bit might be enough; her hair was just as curly, after all.

“I’m not sure what to say to your brothers, you see,” the woman continued, her eyes turning a little faraway. “They probably don’t like me already, and I’ve never been very good at talking to boys.”

Sally blinked. “Talking to boys is just like talking to girls,” she pointed out. “There’s not much that’s different about it.”

“Maybe not for you right now,” Martha giggled again. “But it will be different when you’re older.”

“No it won’t,” Sally retorted immediately. She hated it when people told her that she was too young to understand something; she might only be nine, but she was clever enough to understand a _lot_.

“Alright,” Martha said. Her smile widened. “How about- I’m not good with talking to strangers, and so I need your help to know what to say to your brothers?”

“You’re not having problems talking to me,” Sally said, because that was true. “But, okay, I’ll help.”

She led Martha over to a nearby tree that had plenty of upraised roots. Flopping down on one, uncaring about the dirt that might get on her new black dress, she patted the spot next to her. When Martha sat down, far more gingerly, she grinned.

“Robbie’s really proud,” she started. “He has reason to be, because he’s really, really smart –he’s in Berkeley on scholarship! But if you want to talk to him…” She tapped her lip. “You have to be careful, because he doesn’t like you. But if you’re polite, I think you’ll do fine.” She patted Martha on the arm reassuringly.

Martha laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Sally nodded. “Then there’s Jimmy. He’s still in high school. But he’s really smart too. All of my brothers are smart.” She didn’t try to keep the pride from her voice or the grin from her face. “He likes to draw. You can ask to see some of his drawings. I think they’re boring, because they’re mostly weird-looking buildings, but you probably won’t.”

“Drawings, huh?” Martha asked. She leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee and head in her hand. She nodded. “I’ll try that.”

“He likes to show off his drawings,” Sally told her solemnly.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Nodding, Sally continued. “There’s Pete. He’s stupid.” She wrinkled her nose. “He’s twelve but he thinks he’s so much older than me. He likes stupid jokes. I guess you can ask him to tell one and laugh at it? You have a really pretty laugh, so I think he’ll like you if he hears you laugh.”

“I do?” Martha asked. She gave Sally that laugh again, reaching out to pat the top of her head. “Why, thank you. That’s really sweet of you to say.”

“It’s true!” Sally protested.

“Mm,” Martha nodded. “What else can I talk to Pete about, except for jokes?”

“Uh,” Sally frowned. She put a finger on her bottom lip to show Martha that she was thinking hard. “Numbers? He likes numbers. He wins math competitions at school and stuff like that.”

“That’s amazing!” Martha said. “I’m no good at numbers at all, so that’s really amazing.”

“All of them are amazing,” Sally said, huffing a little because Pete shouldn’t get praise that Robbie and Jimmy didn’t. That wasn’t fair. 

“Yes, they are,” Martha agreed. “I’m… I’m really happy you told me all this, Sally. I really didn’t know about y’all, and now I have four siblings who are all such amazing people.”

She was smiling widely, eyes bright. Sally took a moment before she decided that Martha _did_ mean what she said.

“Well, you could always try to get to know us now,” she said, standing up. Grabbing the hem of her skirt, she shook it a few times to get the dirt and the leaves off of it. Then she reached down and grabbed Martha’s hand, tugging on it.

“C’mon. You got to meet my brothers properly.”

“You haven’t told me what’s amazing about _you_ yet,” Martha protested. But she was standing up, nonetheless.

Sally rolled her eyes. “It’s no good to sing your own praises,” she said, trying to inject as much severity into her tone as Momma always did. “If you want, you can ask my brothers. They’ll probably tell you _something_.”

“That’s something else I can talk to them about, right?” Martha asked, holding onto Sally’s hand as they continued the walk back towards the house.

“Sure,” Sally shrugged. “It’s probably going to be boring, though, so it’s a better idea if you talk to them about what they like.”

“But my conversation with you has been about how amazing your brothers are,” Martha said, her lips twitching. “And it wasn’t boring.”

“There are _three_ of them and _one_ of me,” Sally pointed out. “It’s more boring if you ask them all about me.”

“What if I just ask one of them? Which one should I ask?”

Sally considered this gravely. “Jimmy,” she said. “Pete will just say something stupid. And Robbie is old.”

“Jimmy it is, then,” Martha nodded, just as grave.

She pushed open the front gate of the house, leading Sally upstairs. When they reached the pair of big double doors, she stepped. Then she dropped down until she had to look up to meet Sally’s eyes, and her smile was sweet and wide.

“Thank you, Sally,” she said, squeezing her hand. “You helped a lot.”

“I don’t mind,” Sally said honestly. “You’re pretty.”

Martha laughed. Then she did something that no one but Momma or her brothers ever had: she leaned forward and kissed Sally on the forehead. 

“Can I tell you something?” Martha whispered. Her fingers brushed a strand of Sally’s hair behind her ears. “I think you’re very pretty too, Sally. I think you’ll grow up to be even prettier than me.”

Sally blinked. Her cheeks felt hot. “Okay,” she squeaked out. Her hands fidgeted at the hem of her dress. “Thank you,” she told the ground.

Surely it wasn’t true. Martha wasn’t just pretty. She was elegant and graceful, the perfect picture of a Southern belle. She was sweet too. Sally was… Sally wasn’t any of that. She didn’t think she could be any of that.

Standing up, Martha took her hand and led her into the room. Sally didn’t remember much about what happened after that.

Days later, when Robbie and Pete and even Jimmy scolded her for telling Martha about them, Sally had defended her against her brothers. Martha was a good person, she insisted, over and over and over again. She was pretty and nice. 

_You don’t understand_ , Robbie had told her, so frustrated that he was practically in tears. _You don’t understand and I don’t know how to explain it to you._  
  
Momma had pulled Robbie away then, drawing him into her arms while he trembled. Momma had said, _It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll survive_.

 _We should be able to do better than survive_ , Robbie had said. He looked away from Momma, at his three younger siblings, and he shook his head over and over. _We should. Goddammit, we should_.

Sally didn’t understand. Not at nine. Not at fourteen either, standing at another cemetery, counties away from Father’s grave. 

What she understood at fourteen was something entirely different: that she didn’t find Martha pretty only because she was; she didn’t find Martha pretty because Martha’s features would be her own when she grew up.

(After Martha’s funeral, she stood in front of the mirror with a pair of scissors in her hands. She didn’t cut off all of her curls – that was too dangerous, that would be hinting at something. Instead, she grew them longer again, until they were past her shoulders.)

She only understood what Robbie meant when she was eighteen. Only then did she learn that Martha promised to keep up the payments that Father made to Momma every month for child support. Only years later did Sally realise that the child support given wasn’t nearly enough for college for one child, much less four, and that Martha never bothered to learn how much money was being given: she left it all to her husband, because she wasn’t good at numbers. Only years later would Sally learn that all of Father’s money was given to Martha, and Martha gave it all to Jefferson, who added it to his already rather substantial wealth without even looking at those who needed it more because it simply never occurred to him.

Only at eighteen did Sally learn to hate Martha Wayles Jefferson.

At eighteen, Sally stood in front of the mirror again. This time, she did cut her hair. Until the curls reached only just past her ears.

***

_January 16, Saturday_

If one insisted on strict categorisations, then there were two kinds of people who frequented Debauchee: those who kept to a strict schedule, and those who deliberately stayed away from any kind of schedule whatsoever. James knew that he was of the latter group; he knew, too, those who were in the former.

James asked for his usual glass of cognac from the bar, but didn’t sit down. Instead, he sipped from it just once, enough to wet his lips, before he headed inside.

There were quite a few people in the club tonight. He sidestepped most of them, carefully walking within the areas that marked – by soft lights set into the flooring – as pathways through the play area. He wasn’t even halfway to his destination when he heard it: a high-pitched, gasping female voice, counting numbers, punctuated by the smack of leather on skin.

Aaron Burr had a woman strapped onto a St Andrew’s cross tonight. She was white, her pale skin stark against the colourful scarves that were used to tie her wrists and ankles. Burr’s eyes were narrowed, focused; every single strike of his flogger on her body was precise and methodical. James stood there, watching; like always, he wondered if Burr had chosen the wrong occupation – he should have been a doctor.

Then again, there could be something clinical in the handling of the law.

Five minutes later – more than enough time for Burr to notice his presence – James left the same way he came. He sat down at the barstool, and waited.

Just as James was finishing his cognac, Burr appeared in his field of vision, exiting the larger area. He wasn’t even panting; if not for the slight sheen of sweat on his skin, there would be nothing that hinted towards what he had been doing. He caught James’s eyes, nodded, and took a seat at the other end of the bar. He ordered a drink.

Tipping his head back, James drained the last of his own alcohol. He slipped off the stool, and headed upstairs towards the private rooms in the Debauchee that were made specifically for occasions like these and people like them; the rooms that made the club so popular amongst the rich and powerful in New York who had certain tastes. The games played in _this_ clubdidn’t only involve those tastes, after all.

When Burr finally slipped through the door, it was ten minutes later, and he was carrying a glass of vodka martini that was more than half empty. James didn’t mind; he wasn’t in a particular rush. 

“Judge Madison.”

“Counsellor Burr.”

Burr took his seat on the other couch.

“I assume that you’re not here to grill me for information for the Levi Weeks case,” Burr said, his voice as even and measured as his gaze. “That would be a waste of time.”

“Mm,” James nodded. He crossed his legs, leaning back against the couch. “If I wanted that, I would’ve ambushed Hamilton instead.” Though that would have been a little more difficult, given that Hamilton kept a more erratic schedule and James hadn’t seen him in months, it could’ve been done.

“What are you here for, then?” Burr asked.

“Getting your opinion on an issue that is pertinent to both of us,” James said. When Burr raised an eyebrow, he allowed his own mouth to quirk up into a very small smile.

“The legalities of the arrangements that we both have with others.”

“Ah,” Burr said. He placed his martini glass very carefully on the rectangular table in front of him. “So it’s a grilling, after all. Has District Attorney Jefferson run out of ideas?”

James cocked his head to the side. “Both of us,” he repeated. 

“I’ve never seen him here,” Burr agreed. It would sound like a complete non-sequitur to anyone else, but James understood perfectly the way Burr’s mind worked.

“Does it not bother you?”

“There’s nothing quite so blasé as allowing the personal to enter the professional.” Burr picked up his glass, sipping once more at his alcohol. “But then again, that worked to your advantage.”

So he decided to play that particular card – about James’s current position being gained partially with Jefferson’s very public support – so early in the game. He almost smiled.

“An advantage to having someone of brilliance on your side,” he pointed out. “As you well know.”

“Fire only exists with something to burn.”

It took James some effort to stifle the urge to raise his eyebrows. Burr didn’t seem to notice that he had given away part of himself then; he slotted away that information carefully.

“Perhaps,” he said finally. “But we’re going off-topic, Counsellor.”

Burr’s lips twitched into a miniscule smile. “If you’re trying to get my opinion on something, sir, perhaps you should not call me by that title.”

Borrowing a gesture from Jefferson, James swept out an expansive hand. “Alright,” he said. “The issue that concerns both of us, Burr.”

There was a pause as Burr sipped at his martini. James didn’t prompt him again, allowing him the space to think. Burr knew that, too.

“Whatever contracts exist, no matter how carefully written, will not hold up in any legal court other than Jersey’s,” Burr said finally. “It is more of a psychological weapon than anything.”

“That’s an interesting choice of words,” James murmured. “‘Weapon’.”

Shrugging, Burr drained his martini. The sound of glass on marble table echoed around the room. “Do you refute it?”

“No,” James shook his head. What they did, what they were still doing – it wasn’t just a matter of legalities, but the very murkiness that underlie the contracts themselves. Surely those who agreed to be hurt, all those who agreed to place their wellbeing – mental, physical, and especially emotional – in the hands of others so wholly and completely could not be sane enough to actually _give_ their consent.

Or so said conventional wisdom.

The contract was a gun pointed towards those insecurities. A gun with empty chambers, and one that quite possibly had never been loaded in the first place. A safety blanket.

“A psychological weapon,” Burr repeated, stretching his lips into a smile that did not carry to his eyes. “One that has become blunted within the past few days.”

Here was the reason why James sought Burr out: the same idea, but a different metaphor; a different perspective. One that, James knew, had nothing to do with Burr being a native New Yorker.

“Yet you still continue. Why?”

“So do you,” Burr returned immediately. “Why?”

James shrugged. “Because it is necessary,” he said. “Because it is selfish to allow my own insecurities to get into the way of the needs of others being fulfilled.”

Burr laughed. It was a cold sound, but his eyes sparkled with true mirth. “Should it not be the opposite?” he asked. “That we continue doing what we do because our need exceeds the concerns we should be having for those under our care?”

 _We, our_ ; Burr’s avoidance tactics were so transparent. James smiled.

“Not in my eyes.”

“What are eyes but a single way of interpretation?” Burr asked. His sharp, narrowed gaze showed that the question wasn’t rhetorical. 

“If the law courts cannot or have not come to a conclusion, then every perspective is valid,” James said.

“ _Are_ those decisions that the law comes to definitive, or simply the opinions of those in power?”

“The latter,” James shrugged. When Burr cocked his head, he continued even though he knew that Burr understood; he just wanted him to say his argument out loud. For a man who was accusing James of grilling him, he was doing precisely the same.

“History has shown us that laws must change according to the times,” he said. “As you well know, justice is not a concept that can be agreed upon unanimously. What is considered justice by one is injustice for another.”

“Is that what District Attorney Jefferson thinks?” Burr asked.

James threw his head back and laughed. It was more than he ever showed anyone but Jefferson, but he couldn’t help it – the very notion was absolutely ridiculous.

“No,” he said. Then he stood up. “I think I have given you plenty with regards to possible counterarguments by now, Counsellor Burr,” he said, extending a hand.

Burr didn’t look shocked at the abrupt end of the conversation; he never did. He simply took James’s hand, shaking it.

“The same to you,” he said. He tucked that hand into his pocket once James let go, picked up his martini glass, and left the room. James watched him.

The woman’s high-pitched, gasping voice echoed in his head. _Selfishness_ , Burr said. James wondered just how well Burr understood himself.

When James first heard about the defence attorneys hired to go up against Jefferson, he knew immediately that Burr was the more dangerous one. Hamilton was a lion; his roar was fiercer than his bite. Burr was a snake, a black mamba that crept along, quiet and invisible in the grass, until he struck with venom enough to kill a man. Or an argument.

But, this time, James wondered if Burr wouldn’t turn into an ouroboros, biting on his own tail and sending the poison deep into his own body.

He would just have to wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James Hemings’s original occupation in history was that of a chef, with a specialty for French cooking from the time he followed Jefferson to France during the latter’s ambassador years. He’s an architect in this ‘verse because 1) I need him to be involved with Ezrine and Levi Weeks for plot’s sake, and 2) it’s easier to get out of working-class circumstances as an architect than as a chef. He’s also called Jimmy instead of James because I already have a James as a main character. In this ‘verse, he’s played by [Kyle Scatliffe](http://i.imgur.com/IWBjQ8w.jpg).
> 
> Sally’s three brothers in this ‘verse all exist in history, and were all incredibly intelligent and skilled people who managed to do the best they could with the horrible circumstances they were given. I’m transferring those intelligences and skills into modern day working-class equivalents. Again, if I fuck up, please tell me and I will fix it.
> 
> Mulligan and Madison are both still played by Oak. Lafayette, when he appears, will also be played by Daveed. People having the exact same appearances will not be a plot point. Probably.
> 
> I have a _very_ specific idea for the person playing Sally and Martha. However, I know that my idea is incredibly creepy in a way different from the creepiness of the rest of the fic, so I’m not saying. Please just… just carrying on imagining who you want to imagine. I’ll try to keep the descriptions vague unless they were a plot point. (If you can recognise her based upon what I put up there… Please come join me in hell. I’m suffering.)


	5. nothin’ but ruined pride, something new inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: Massive consent issues involving BDSM: Burr is a shitty Dom; Hamilton is a problematic sub. Second scene: bigotry towards BDSM and homophobia, both dressed up with philosophy; Jefferson is not just problematic, he literally is a Problem. (And he doesn’t exactly get called out on it either.)

_January 18, Monday_

Ten in the morning: Aaron had barely settled down behind his desk when Hamilton came barging into his office again.

“Ezrine Weeks is coming in two days,” Hamilton said, starting in the middle of a conversation like he usually did. “We still don’t have the arguments that we’re going to give to her.”

Aaron looked at him. As usual, Hamilton was wearing a suit – a different one, charcoal grey instead of navy blue – that possibly cost more than half of his salary, along with a half-knotted tie and an opened collar. His hair was coming out of his ponytail again, and his leather shoes – polished but dated – were creased. He had obviously run up the stairs, again.

“Sit down,” Aaron said. When Hamilton opened his mouth, he said it again, tone firmer: “ _Sit down_.”

Hamilton practically slammed himself down into the chair. He looked at Aaron mutinously before he yanked off his hair tie, shoving it into his mouth as he started gathering his hair again. Aaron simply waited.

“As I was saying,” Hamilton began once his hair looked less of a disaster, “we still don’t have the arguments. Washington said two weeks, and it’s two weeks _today_. It’s just by luck that she’s busy with another meeting this week and she wants to be there when we present our arguments to Levi, because we honestly have nothing.”

Nodding, Aaron started up his laptop. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Hamilton narrow his.

“What I have so far,” Hamilton continued, an edge creeping into his voice now, “is the autopsy report, and a couple of new findings that Mulligan has given to us.”

“Mm.” Laurens and Mulligan. Hamilton’s roommate from college, and another friend of his from the same time period. Was it just Hamilton’s good luck that both of them ended up in positions that helped his job, the same luck that had him landing a position with Washington’s company just as the man made the career switch from law professor back to practicing lawyer in his own firm?

Honestly, he was surprised that Hamilton didn’t end up working for Lafayette. But perhaps the affairs of that friend’s multinational company were simply too boring for Hamilton to take.

Logging into his account, Aaron rested both hands on his desk. He looked at Hamilton, meeting that expectant gaze levelly, refusing to allow the other man to even notice anything different about his expression. “I’m listening,” he said.

“You better be,” Hamilton muttered. Then he shook his head, mouth moving without sound, and took a breath.

“Anyway, Laurens’s autopsy report said that Sands died because the voltage was too high,” he said. Only when Aaron held out his hand did Hamilton pass the file over to him. “Given what Levi said, we can very easily spin this into an accident.”

Aaron skimmed through the reports, focusing mostly on the pictures. He learned long ago how to manage his instinctive, visceral reaction towards death, so he simply swallowed the bile and looked back up.

“Weeks,” he said, stressing the name because he definitely noticed how Hamilton called him ‘Levi’ while the victim was ‘Sands’, “was an engineering student.”

Before Hamilton could reply, he held up a hand. “Another thing,” he said carefully, “according to Ezrine Weeks’s testimony and confirmed by Weeks himself, he makes his own equipment. “

“Both of those facts were known to Sands,” Hamilton said, barely waiting a second after Aaron had finished speaking. “Yet he signed the contract anyway.”

The contract. A flimsy piece of paper that held no legal water, and which Hamilton seemed to cling to with some kind of desperate fervour.

“So he did,” Aaron conceded. He allowed Hamilton a single moment of triumph. “What is it that Mulligan said?”

When Hamilton didn’t reply immediately, Aaron didn’t move; didn’t even allow himself to cock his head. He already knew, of course – he might not have the same kind of connections as Hamilton did, and did not get the information so directly, but he _did_ know what Mulligan must’ve said. Or, rather, he knew what _Monroe_ sent.

“Sands signed an insurance policy a week before his death,” Hamilton finally admitted after five seconds of silence. He stared down at his hands. “Levi’s the payee.”

“Weeks didn’t tell us that,” Aaron said, deliberately keeping his voice mild.

“He probably didn’t know,” Hamilton said, fingers linking together. Then he shook his head, eyes bright when he lifted them to meet Aaron’s. “We can use that. Mulligan also gave me text messages that showed Levi convincing Sands to take out the insurance policy for the sake of his family.”

“Mm,” Aaron said. “What else did Mulligan say?”

Those bright eyes darkened again. Hamilton turned his head, staring out of the windows of Aaron’s office. “That Levi is far poorer than either of us assumed,” he said. Aaron fought down the protest rising within him, keeping his smile instead. “He has no money. His living is entirely reliant on his sister.”

Aaron folded his hands. He leaned in. “Did Mulligan also tell you that Weeks might have a gambling problem?” he asked, tone conversational.

“What?” Hamilton blurted out. Well, that answered his question.

“You’re not the only one who has been looking through Weeks’s financial records,” Aaron said in the same mild tone. “I’ve been tracking his movements. The past four years or so, he’s had this habit, you see. He would withdraw the money his sister transferred to his account, take it all out in cash. Then he would buy a plane ticket.”

He paused just for the pleasure of watching Hamilton force himself to not fidget in the sudden silence.

“In those four years, he has travelled to Las Vegas, Reno, Monte Carlo, St Jose, and Macau on a regular basis. He never goes to the same area twice in a row, and he always goes for two, three days maximum.” He cocked his head. “I don’t think I need to tell you that the only thing a person would do in all of those places in merely two or three days is to visit the casinos.”

Hamilton had gone slightly white. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. “So what are you saying?” he said finally, voice strangled-sounding. “You believe that our client is _guilty_?”

Here it was again: Hamilton behaving in a way that Aaron completely and utterly could not understand. “I’m telling you the facts,” he said. “I’m saying that it looks damning. If the prosecution wants to argue that Weeks has a motive for murder, it can do so easily.”

“Wait,” Hamilton said. His eyes were bright, almost feverishly so, and his hands were clenched around the edge of his table as he leaned in until his body was almost fully sprawled across the desk.

“Are you secretly working for Jefferson? Is that why you’re actually making his arguments for him?” He threw out the words like they were knives.

For the first time since the beginning of the conversation, Aaron felt the first stab of genuine annoyance in his chest. He shoved it down, but not quickly enough to hide the narrowing of his eyes.

“The best way to construct your case is to construct your opponent’s first,” he said, practically having to speak through gritted teeth to keep his voice level. “Your opening arguments will immediately undercut and destroy theirs even before they can make it.”

Cocking his head to the side, Hamilton let out a low, barking laugh. “Hate to break it to you, Burr,” he drawled. “But the prosecution goes first in the courtroom.”

“Exactly,” Aaron said, shoving down another stab of sheer irritation. He met Hamilton’s eyes squarely, and forced his shoulders and hands to remain relaxed. “If the defence’s opening argument immediately refutes all of the prosecution’s, then it proves that the prosecution has nothing to stand on.”

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Hamilton said, practically spitting out the words as he hurled himself backwards into his seat. “If our opening statement are nothing but refutations, then we won’t have our own argument.”

Aaron’s hand clenched around the edge of his own desk. The wood dug into his flesh and pressed into his bones. He did not lean in. 

“The courtroom,” he said slowly, “is not a debate floor. The burden of proof is upon the prosecution’s shoulders; all the defence has to do is to raise reasonable doubt upon their arguments. _Not_ to have any of their own.”

Hamilton’s eyes widened. “You can’t possibly believe that,” he said. “You… Your refusal to believe in anything can’t reach _that_ far.”

“I don’t see,” Aaron enunciated every single syllable, “what my beliefs have to do with our current discussion.”

“They have _everything_ to do with our discussion!” Hamilton cried. His hands slammed onto the desk hard enough to lift Aaron’s laptop and send it clattering back down – he didn’t notice, too-bright and too-wide eyes staring into Aaron’s. “How can I… How am I supposed to trust you enough to work with you if you can’t even believe in Levi’s innocence?”

Deliberately remaining seated, Aaron leaned back. His hands remained white-knuckled on the desk. “It is not a requirement for the defence to believe in their client’s innocence,” he said. Then he deliberately looked Hamilton up and down. “In fact, I’d say that it is a detriment.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You’re too emotionally involved, Hamilton,” Aaron said, keeping his tone as cold and clinical as possible. “Emotional investment in a case is the downfall of lawyers. That’s why ‘conflict of interests’ is an actual term.”

It didn’t matter that Hamilton’s passion was something Aaron had always admired about him; didn’t matter that he sometimes wished that he could be as open with his beliefs as Hamilton was, especially when Hamilton seemed to be able to get everything he wanted because of the people who were drawn to that passion. None of that mattered because Aaron wanted – _needed_ – to win this damned argument.

He might not have the luck of having the love and respect of authority figures. He might not have the fortune of having people willing to help him, or the privilege of throwing their affections away. So what if everyone he loved died, and the only ones who were willing to stay by his side were the ones who had no choice because they depended upon him for something only he could provide? He was tired of Hamilton winning. He was tired of looking ahead of him and seeing Hamilton’s back. It had happened far too many times now.

Enough that he wasn’t going to let Hamilton question his worth as a lawyer.

“Emotional investment,” Hamilton said. He repeated it: “ _Emotional investment_.”

Throwing his head back, he barked a laugh. “Is that what you call having some damned _humanity_ , Burr?”

Aaron took a breath through his teeth. He was the one thing in life he could control. He wasn’t going to allow Hamilton take that away from him as well.

“No,” he said. Despite his efforts, his voice trembled just slightly. “That’s what I call not being desperate enough to believe in everything. That’s what I call having a clear mind.”

Hamilton slammed his hand on the table again. This time, Aaron didn’t even look away from him to check on his laptop. 

“Levi was _crying_ ,” Hamilton hissed, leaning in close enough that his nose nearly touched Aaron’s. “He was crying. He was distraught over Sands’s death. How could you have witnessed that and not felt _anything_?”

“People lie,” Aaron said. “People cheat. People will do anything they can in order to make other people believe whatever they say.” He narrowed his eyes. “Including throwing tantrums like a child.”

“That’s what you think I’m doing?” Hamilton asked, his eyebrows flying up to his hair. “You think that I’m behaving like a _child_?”

Standing up, Aaron bared his teeth. “Nothing I’ve seen through the years I’ve had your _acquaintance_ ,” he said, making the word sound filthy, “has shown me otherwise.”

Hamilton laughed again. Every single second of hearing that sound was simply feeding the fire of rage in Aaron’s chest.

“Fuck, I can’t believe that I have to work with a robot for a case like this,” Hamilton said. His shoulders shook. When he looked at Aaron again, his lips were stretched into an ugly smile.

“Do you know what Washington said, Burr? He said that I’m part of this case because I brought _passion_ into it.” Something must have shown on Aaron’s face, because Hamilton’s smile widened even further, until he looked crazed. “He can’t _quite_ trust you with it, you see. Not when you’re nothing but a fucking robot, _following procedure_.”

The one thing in life he could control, Aaron reminded himself. But it was too little, and too late. His hands had somehow slammed onto the desk, the sound of it echoing loud in his ears.

“Shut your mouth,” he said, his voice slicing through the beginnings of Hamilton’s mocking laughter. It was not one he ever used in this office, or even a courtroom; one he had never used outside a very specific building on Wall Street.

Hamilton, oddly enough, obeyed: his mouth clicked shut, the laughter dying off suddenly. He froze in place, staring at Aaron. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His tongue darted out, licking his lips.

Oh, Aaron knew about Hamilton’s inclinations. Hamilton wasn’t such a fool to use his own name in Debauchee, but a man like him couldn’t really hide himself. Aaron had never watched, never allowed that part of his life to cross into this. Hamilton’s private life was of no interest or relevance to him, no matter how much Hamilton refused to see the boundaries between the two. There were a few times when the wires crossed, of course, but they were never particularly important.

But now…

As if he was standing outside himself, Aaron watched as his hands rose, and dropped onto Hamilton’s shoulders.

“Knees,” he said, in the same tone as before. Hamilton jerked, but he didn’t move. Aaron’s head cocked to the side, and he dug his fingertips between those shoulderblades. Hamilton’s lips parted, and he let out a shuddering breath.

“Down on your knees,” Aaron said, hearing his own voice as if it was coming from a far-off place. “Boy.”

Hamilton’s head bowed. His shoulders trembled beneath Aaron’s hand. The chair was kicked away, and when Aaron let go, Hamilton slid down, bending one leg and then the other, until he was on his knees entirely. 

His hands were loose by his side. Aaron walked around the desk until he was standing right in front of him. He looked at him for a moment before he went past entirely, heading for the door and locking it.

When he returned, Hamilton’s eyes were fixed onto the ground. His breathing was loud enough to echo in Aaron’s office. Slowly, deliberately, Aaron slid one hand into Hamilton’s hair. He tugged away the tie, letting it float to the floor, before he twisted his wrist so he was jerking Hamilton’s head upwards.

“Proper posture, boy,” he said. His throat seemed to be working of its own accord, without any need for aid from his mind.

Dark eyes stared up at him. Aaron held the gaze. His mind was blanking out, all of his previous rage draining out to be replaced by something that was… not calm. The eye of the storm. Something close to that. He could not find the right metaphor.

Gradually, Hamilton bent his elbows, tucking his hands to the small of his back. His shoulders stopped hunching, his spine straightened, and his knees spread apart. His posture was, suddenly, absolutely perfect.

The sounds of their combined breathing filled the room. Aaron scraped his a nail over the side of Hamilton’s face. Hamilton’s breath hitched. Then Aaron perched himself on the edge of his own desk. 

Keeping his eyes on those dark ones, he lifted a foot, and pressed it right down on Hamilton’s crotch. Hamilton jerked. His throat made a sound like a choked-off whine. Beneath the leather of Aaron’s shoes, his cock began to harden. His eyes grew even darker, pupils dilating. His shoulders jerked compulsively.

He didn’t make a sound. But his teeth sank into his bottom lip, and the sunlight from the windows caught the edge of them, brilliant-bright.

Sunlight. It was ten in the morning. They were at work. Aaron considered that while grinding the tip of his foot against Hamilton’s cock; while those half-choked, gasping pants resounded in his ears.

He lifted his foot and set it back down onto the carpet.

“Listen to me, boy,” Aaron said. “We’re going to finish our discussion. We’re not going to argue anymore about our different methods. You’re not going to try to extrapolate my personality from my methods.”

Hamilton was going to protest; Aaron could tell by the way his lips were starting to move, though no sound escaped him. He twisted his hand in Hamilton’s hair, hard enough to pull out a few strands from the scalp. Hamilton’s mouth stopped moving.

“If you can accomplish that,” Aaron continued, “then I’ll give you what you need tonight.” He paused. The tip of his foot nudged against the underside of Hamilton’s half-hard cock through his slacks and underwear.

“Do we have a deal?”

Opening his mouth, Hamilton closed it again. He shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again. His eyes went even wider, and he stared up to Aaron in confusion. Aaron smiled, tracing Hamilton’s bottom lip with his thumb.

“Right now, and tonight, you will address me as ‘Master’,” he murmured. “Everywhere else, it will be ‘Burr’.” A pause. He nudged at the inside of Hamilton’s thigh, listening to his gasp and locking the sound deep within himself.

“You may speak.”

“Yes,” Hamilton gasped. His back arched when Aaron’s grip on his hair tightened. “Yes, Master. I understand. We have a deal. Thank you, Master.”

Aaron let go of him. He pulled himself up to sit on top of his own desk. “Red means that we have stopped,” he said. It was better to use the common traffic lights, he thought distantly. There was no point asking Hamilton for his safeword now; not at this stage. 

“After I say the word, you are to head to the bathroom. You’re going to refresh yourself. When you come back, we’re going to continue our discussion.” He paused. When Hamilton nodded, eyes squeezing shut, Aaron said:

“Red.”

Hamilton practically tripped over himself as he stood up. He threw Aaron back a glance that Aaron couldn’t decipher before he strode out of the door, closing it hard enough to practically slam it.

Only when Aaron could no longer hear his footsteps that he stumbled back behind his desk, collapsing into his chair. He buried his face into his hands, bowing down until his forehead hit the cool wood.

What the hell had just happened? What the hell did he just _do_? He was the one thing in life he could control, he always told himself, and yet now…

Now. He lifted his head. There were a few strands of Hamilton’s hair tangled in his fingers. Aaron pulled one free, holding it up into the sunlight. 

If there was anything Aaron had learned about Hamilton after watching him through the years, it was that he jumped at any opportunity given to him; took everything he could that was for his own benefit.

Slowly, Aaron curled one strand around his finger. Then another. Then another. He glanced at the still-closed door. Then he looked down at the autopsy file still on his desk, tracing his fingers over the edge of it.

Control.

Yes, he decided. Yes, this could be useful.

Sliding his phone out of his pocket, he texted Sarah, telling her that he would return home too late tonight to have dinner with her and Theo. He was just sending the message when Hamilton returned, looking like a wet, frazzled cat; he’d probably dunked his whole head under the tap.

“An accident,” he said, keeping his voice even, excising all traces of his previous tone from it. “That’s the angle you’re saying that we can take.”

He watched Hamilton’s face; watched at those nostrils flared, as his brows furrowed, as his head moved downwards into something that barely resembled a nod.

“That’s a possibility,” Hamilton said. He sat down on the chair. His eyes darted towards Aaron’s hand, for a few moments, before he dragged them back up to Aaron’s face. 

“Do you…” he swallowed. “Do you have another idea?”

Aaron smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

***

_January 18, Monday_

“BDSM is an acronym that can expand into many words: bondage, discipline, dominance, submission, sadism, and masochism,” Jefferson was reading out. “Given the context of the current trial, in which the defendant Weeks has literally electrocuted his victim Elric Sands to death, I believe that the latter four terms are the most significant.”

They were in Jefferson’s house, in the guestroom that James usually stayed in because Jefferson said that his study was a mess. Though James hadn’t taken off anything, Jefferson had discarded his jacket, waistcoat, and tie the moment he came through the door.

“I shall first concentrate on masochism,” he continued, tucking a stray curl away from his face. Then he tugged at the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning it even further. “From its very first naming by psychiatrist Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing, masochism is classified as a “sexual anomaly”, a “perversion of the sexual instinct.” In other words, masochism, by its very definition, is not only a deviation of the norm, but something that might even be classified as a mental illness.”

Yanking his eyes away from the slice of clavicle exposed from Jefferson’s open shirt, James interrupted: “Thomas.”

“One of the possible criteria for a defendant to be considered guilty for their crimes is _mens reae_ ,” Jefferson continued, seemingly not hearing him. “The definition of the term does not just include its literal translation from Latin – guilty mind – but also the ability to _comprehend_ an action—”

“Thomas!”

Jefferson’s head jerked upwards. He blinked, then gave James a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I figured,” James waved a hand away; it wasn’t important. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together between his knees. “That argument isn’t going to hold any water in court.”

“Eh?” 

“You’re working off of two assumptions here,” James said, ticking off his fingers. “Firstly, you’re assuming that Sands and Weeks’s relationship is primarily based upon sadism and masochism, something which would be nigh impossible to prove.” Especially since one of them was dead and therefore the far-fetched idea of exhibiting their particular brand of BDSM in the courtroom was completely out of the question. James shook the idea out of his head.

“Secondly, you’re assuming that the judge or the jury would agree that masochism is a mental illness. You can’t prove that either.”

Jefferson frowned. He tugged at the ends of his hair before pushing the strands out of his face again. “But practically everyone thinks that those who actually wants to hurt people or be hurt for the sake of some sort of sexual pleasure,” his lips twisted, “are crazy.”

James shook his head again. “You’re falling into your old problem,” he pointed out. 

Honestly, sometimes he thought that Jefferson would make a much better politician than a lawyer. He had a very instinctive grasp on the way the public thought, and an even better handle on the methods he could use to convince them. But toying with the public was a very different game from toying with the legal system; the latter included not just a jury, but a judge. An appointed referee to ensure that prosecution and defence both played by the rules of the game.

It hadn’t been officially announced yet, but James knew from the grapevine that the judge for the Weeks case was going to be one Benjamin Franklin. He nearly laughed aloud the first time he heard of it: surely this entire case was proof that someone in the judicial appointment committee or even God Himself – if He existed – had a nasty sense of humour. Jefferson was the only person directly involved who didn’t have a conflict of interests.

Correction: the only person who didn’t _know_ he had a conflict of interests. Or so James suspected and never allowed himself to confirm.

“Besides,” he continued, because Jefferson was still frowning in the way he did when he was not at all convinced but was willing to listen, “neither sadism nor masochism has ever been officially listed as a mental illness. Without that, your argument doesn’t hold water.”

“Hm,” Jefferson said. He tapped his pen on his full lips. Then he looked up to James, flashing him a grin. “I’m going to take off my contacts. Gives me a bit to think.”

“Go ahead,” James waved a hand. Jefferson never could think when he was still.

While Jefferson headed for the bathroom, James picked up his argument, reading through it. He was still reading when Jefferson returned, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses having replaced his contacts. James viciously repressed the sudden urge within him to trace the cheekbones that suddenly looked so much sharper and defined.

“So I was thinking,” Jefferson said, taking back the sheaf of paper from James’s hand without looking at him. “I can possibly bank on the idea of perversion. Immorality.”

James opened his mouth, but before he could even say a word, Jefferson shook his head. “No, that doesn’t work,” he said. “It’ll be blaming Sands along with Weeks. I’d be shooting myself in the foot.”

“Not just that,” James said. He nudged Jefferson by the ankle, urging the other man to look at him. “It holds no _legal_ standing as an argument, Thomas. It holds as much water as saying that a gay man is inherently immoral now that same-sex marriage is legal in all of the states.”

“Yeah, but that’s still wrong,” Jefferson waved a hand. “And we both know that it’s going to be overturned soon enough. People won’t always be that stupid.”

“Do you think that Weeks and Sands are immoral for their relationship?” James asked quietly before he could help himself.

Jefferson’s head jerked upwards, staring at him over the tops of his glasses. “Of course,” he said, as if stating the obvious. “Even if we dismiss the ridiculous argument based upon the Christian definition of morality, the one factor that joins Kant’s categorical imperative and Bentham’s utilitarianism is the idea of universality of rules. You can’t universalise the morality of same-sex marriage.”

“Why not?” When Jefferson raised an eyebrow – _you already know this_ – James forced a chuckle. “Humour me.”

“Okay,” Jefferson shrugged. He put down his papers, leaning back against the couch and tapping his pen on his lip. “If we’re taking Bentham’s utilitarianism, same-sex marriage is inherently immoral because it doesn’t maximise utility. Same-sex marriage is inherently non-reproductive; there’s no _purpose_ to it. Kant’s categorical imperative also means that same-sex marriage isn’t moral – all of the debates about it mean that it can’t be universalised into an actual moral _law._ It’s not rational; it’s purely cultural, which means that it’s limited temporally and spatially. People will eventually come to their senses.”

He switched to twirling the pen. “Not just Kant and Bentham either,” he continued. “Rawls’s contract theory also states that any laws that are moral are laws that everyone can hypothetically agree to in a social contract. That’s universality all over again.”

Pausing, he flashed James a grin. “There’s also the bit where it’s just not natural.”

James shoved down the urge to flinch. He nodded instead, ruminating over his thoughts for a long moment. Jefferson waited, his foot shaking and fingers tapping on his knees. 

“If you can’t argue for the universality of same-sex marriage, or relationships, as a moral law,” he said slowly, “you can’t flip it around for the immorality of it either. Especially since it has already been declared constitutional and therefore legal.”

Before Jefferson could protest, he shook his head. “You might not agree with it,” he said quietly. “But it is legal. Bringing up the immorality of their relationship is going to doom your argument, because it’s no longer relevant.” 

“Yeah,” Jefferson nodded. “I know that. But the morality of BDSM—”

James shook his head. “You can’t argue for that to be universally immoral either,” he said quietly. “The very fact that there’s a term for it means that there is a community of people who not only think it is moral, but actively engage it in. To declare all of them immoral, much less mentally ill, when you have no actual medical evidence to back it up, will just paint you as a bigot.”

He paused, letting that sink in for a long moment. Then, as Jefferson was still staring at his printed argument, he went in for the final strike: “Why are you so fixated on proving the immorality when you _know_ that it’s not going to work?”

No matter Jefferson’s flaws, he was neither stupid nor bad at his job. He knew the law like the back of his hand; had passed the bar for New York in just a couple of months just like James himself had. All that James was saying so far were things that Jefferson should and most likely _did_ already know.

Usually, Jefferson’s arguments weren’t flimsy assumptions, especially this late in the game. During his past few cases, even before he gained the post as District Attorney, all James had to do was to act as a sounding board and add a few more salient points. It was the first time he’d had to tear apart Jefferson’s arguments so thoroughly and completely.

Suspicions, James reminded himself. Not confirmations. The last thing he should do was to make assumptions just when he was trying to make sure Jefferson didn’t.

“I…” Jefferson bit his lip. He tossed his pen onto the table, then the paper, and ran both hands over his face, dislodging his glasses. He threw those down too, and buried his face into his hands.

Reaching over, James carefully brushed the back of his hand over Jefferson’s cheek. “It’s the contract, isn’t it?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle. “You got too used to fighting about contracts, given your last case?”

“Can’t get fucking used to something when I’ve only done it once,” Jefferson said, his voice muffled behind his hands. He scrubbed his face hard with his knuckles, curls bouncing as he dropped his head backwards. “But yeah. Fuck. It’s the contract. It’s bothering me.”

His lips twisted. “And I know that the defence will be harping on the damned thing to get Weeks off scot-free.”

Immediately, James shook his head. “No, they won’t,” he said. After a moment, he corrected himself: “ _Burr_ wouldn’t.”

Negotiating the legality of the contract would be too contentious and far too dependent on the jury’s own preconceived assumptions; the grounds were too dangerous for a man as cautious as Burr even if he believed that the thing could potentially stand any ground in terms of legality. Hamilton, though…

Hamilton was a wild card. He had always been, even the brief time they were on the same debate team in college. 

“Then we’ll just end up fighting over circumstantial evidence,” Jefferson said. Sometime during James’s meandering thoughts, he put his glasses back on. “There’s evidence for a motive, but potential motive doesn’t prove intent. So it’s not going to work either.”

It would work a hell lot better than arguing about the universal morality of same-sex relationships or BDSM. James bit back those words, shaking his head. He watched Jefferson for a long moment as the other man curled up on the couch, knees pressed against his chest and face buried into his knees.

When he spoke, he made sure to keep his tone clear of any kind of censure: “Why does the contract bother you so much?” He also deliberately blanked his mind of any possible assumption or suspicions. Never mind that he had seen Jefferson’s precise pose on so many others when they came to him in desperate need. Not relevant; he wasn’t going there.

Jefferson didn’t speak for a very long time. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said, and there was something in his tone that said he was trying to convince James less than he was trying to convince himself. “Why would anyone, _anyone_ , consent to something like that?”

“People can get off to different things,” James said in the same tone.

“Not the electricity thing,” Jefferson shook his head. He hugged himself tighter. “Just… Sands can’t have been sane, you know. He can’t have been. No one sane would put themselves so completely and wholly into the hands of someone else. Especially not… especially not a _man_.”

“Why not?” James asked, softer now. “It’s not very different from marriage. That’s putting your entire future into the hands of someone else, isn’t it?”

Jefferson’s head jerked up. Then he shook it so rapidly that the ends of his curls smacked against his cheeks. “That’s a completely different thing,” he said. “It’s not. It’s different. It’s… It’s not the same.” 

James wondered, idly, if Jefferson realised that he was twining the chain around his finger; if he was practically strangling himself with how hard he was gripping onto his old wedding ring. Likely not. 

“It’s a completely different thing,” Jefferson repeated. “It’s not the same at all. I don’t know why. But it’s not. It’s not.”

He probably didn’t realise that he was starting to shake either.

“Thomas,” James said. When Jefferson looked at him, he allowed himself two seconds to imagine all of the consequences that would happen if he was completely wrong about this, and all of the same if he was right. He weighed those consequences against the tearing, burning pain in his chest at the sight of Jefferson like this; the damage Jefferson would suffer through if James allowed him to continue twisting himself into knots over this.

The latter won. It was no contest.

Slowly, he stood up. Jefferson’s eyes followed him. God, he was trembling, and he looked so lost, so confused, and James’s heart was threatening to wrench itself out of his chest. Reaching out, he cupped Jefferson’s face with both hands. He felt more than heard Jefferson’s breath hitch as he stroked his thumb over the curve of his cheekbones.

“Stand up for me,” he murmured. His voice was gentle, but steely.

Jefferson unfolded himself. He stood up on shaky legs. His eyes were fixed on James’s, wide and dark. They weren’t glazed over yet, but they were unfocused. As James continued to stare at him without speaking, his tongue darted out, and he licked his lips.

“James,” he breathed. It sounded like a plea.

Most of the time, with situations like this, James would step away. He would outline the situation, the stipulations; he would write it all down into a contract, and leave for a day or two before coming back. It was not just a matter of decency; it was a matter of knowledge that those who came to him didn’t want him exactly, but what he could offer. He didn’t like to lie.

But, like always, Jefferson was proving an exception to the rule: before James could think further, he was already leaning forward and pressing their mouths together.

Making a low sound at the back of his throat, Jefferson’s back arched. His hand closed over James’s suit jacket. Immediately, James’s arm went around his waist, his other hand sinking into those rich, voluminous curls. He tugged Jefferson’s head back, and when Jefferson’s mouth fell open, he took what was offered.

He could feel the moment when Jefferson’s knees grew weak: his body became heavier as he leaned his whole weight against James. James simply held on tighter, pressing their chests together, letting Jefferson’s leaner body rest against his own even as he plundered his mouth, tasting what he had dreamed of for so long. Jefferson let out a sound, half a whine and half a moan, and his lips moved beneath James’s, trying desperately to kiss him back.

And he could feel, too, the moment when Jefferson’s brain kicked back into gear. The pliant body tensed back up, the hand on his shoulder turned into a fist, and James let go right as Jefferson shoved himself backwards.

Slowly, James wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. He looked at Jefferson: stared at the wet, swollen mouth, the wide, dark eyes. He had always, _always_ , known his best friend to be beautiful, but right now…

Right now, James could feel some kind of heat gathering within him, heading southward. He pushed it away.

“Thomas,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. Like he was speaking to a scared child. “It’s alright.”

“No,” Jefferson said. He shook his head hard. His eyes flickered from James’s hand to his face, then back again. “No, no, it’s not. It’s not. I.”

His mouth clicked shut. He turned around and fled the guestroom.

James didn’t follow him. He sat back down onto the couch. If he strained, he could practically hear the sound of clinking glass as Jefferson grabbed the alcohol he kept in his study and started to drink it. But he didn’t strain; he didn’t need to in order to imagine it.

What was it that Burr said? _We continue doing what we do because our need exceeds the concerns we should be having for those under our care_.

How long had it been since that particular conversation? How long had it been since James had, with complete confidence, labelled Burr to be selfish and walked away feeling pleased with his own supposed selflessness? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t even get out his phone to check the dates.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he buried his face in his hands. But the sight of Jefferson, his mouth slick and red, his eyes wide, and the sound of his voice, saying James’s name like he never had before…

Selfish.

He sent a text message. It took barely five minutes before he received a reply from Ben: _Of course, sir. I’m at your disposal whenever you see fit._

Pocketing his phone, he stood up and headed out. The door to the study was not fully closed: he couldn’t help but see Jefferson, seated on the ground with his knees drawn up and one hand closed around his whiskey bottle, Martha’s ring on Martha’s chain clenched tight in the other and pressed hard against his forehead. If he strained…

The fire in his chest was burning brighter, the flames licking on his insides. If he kept watching, it would devour him whole. 

Closing his eyes, he turned and walked away.

Half an hour later, he was at Debauchee, and Ben was kneeling at his feet. James cupped his hand over that jaw, lifting those dark eyes up. Ben signed a contract knowing that there would be neither sex nor emotions involved; he promised absolute obedience with several outlined caveats. 

Those caveats didn’t include this.

“Boy,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I need you to cry for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason why Jefferson’s bigotry is justified using ethical philosophy instead of religion because: 1) in history, he never was particularly religious as a person; he had a personal Bible in which he kept only the laws, and ethical philosophy is _all_ about the validity of laws; 2) he actually did fight for freedom of religion, along with Madison, 3) bigotry can happen without needing religion as excuse, just as religion has a far greater scope than bigotry, 4) he’s a lawyer, this is his bread and butter, and 5) ethical philosophy and religion have one commonality: they can both be twisted and interpreted according to the agenda of the person using them. 
> 
> Talking about philosophy, I would like to say that this fic runs on Hobbes’s assumption that every person is selfish. If that’s not obvious enough by now, sob. (If you want Rousseau, I wrote two epics for _Les Misérables_ where the chacterisations run entirely by his particular brand of philosophy. I got bored of Rousseau after around 300k words.) Every act of selfishness arises out of a reason; whether that reason is enough to justify the act is up to you 
> 
> Jefferson wears glasses because Daveed Diggs looks _ridiculously cute_ with them. 
> 
> Also, I will no longer post this fic on Tumblr because the sheer list of tags and warnings can’t fit into a post, and I don’t want anyone to step into this unaware of what they’re getting into. Please press ‘subscribe’ if you want to follow the fic. Or just check back here, or my AO3 dashboard, every Wednesday night EST.
> 
> One last thing: /points to the ‘Slow Burn’ tag and then disappears.
> 
> Edit 18 Sep: [draconequus](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/75961723) drew fanart of the scene between Burr and Hamilton and it is wonderful. [Here](http://fighting-frenchbread.tumblr.com/post/150301957736/a-fever-of-the-mad-for-evocating-fic-its-old) it is, please reblog it!


	6. summon all the courage you require

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing anyone can do to you is worse than what you do to yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: a lot of non-negotiated kink, all revolving around degradation and involving pretty heavy, life-threatening violence, peppered with self-loathing. Second scene: depiction of disassociation, more self-loathing. Third scene: internalised homophobia, more depictions of disassociation, depictions of self-harm and vague suicidal ideations, and even more self-loathing. Real summary: POV characters hate themselves and nothing is okay.

_January 18, Monday_

The discussion of the case spilled over to lunch, after lunch, and all the way until they wrapped up at five in the afternoon. During lunch, Burr gave him one of those smiles that didn’t reach his eyes, and dragged him out instead of letting Alexander eat his usual sandwich at his desk. When they finished, Alexander wanted to type up and tidy the notes they made and start on the presentation, but Burr slipped a hand over his neck and told him to go home, take a shower, and eat a snack. He made Alexander repeat after him, and didn’t let go until he did.

When Alexander reached Debauchee, it was six thirty. Usually, at this time, he was still in the office, working. Every time he even thought about heading back, the skin on his neck would burn, tugging like a half-healed scald, and he would keep heading towards Wall Street instead of uptown. His feet didn’t seem to obey him anymore, following the orders of a man whose foot Alexander could still feel on his cock.

He didn’t know what would happen now. He knew Burr went to the club, of course – a man like him was hard to miss – but Alexander rarely socialised, rarely even entered the place. But Debauchee had some kind of policy about contracts, right? He would be fine.

Burr was sitting by the bar when he entered. It was Wilmot himself who was tending today – one of the idiosyncrasies of a man who was rich enough to own several buildings in New York City – and Burr had his usual insincere smile on. Alexander approached, fiddling with the straps of his backpack.

Without turning towards him, Burr slid a hand into his hair and flicked away the tie. Alexander’s breath tripped in his throat. _The contract,_ he wanted to say, but swallowed, and cast his eyes to the ground instead. When the hand tightened, he nodded, still staring at the polished wood floor as he dropped his backpack on it.

Then he went to his knees, careful to keep the precise posture that Burr had demanded from him that morning. No contract, no discussion; okay, he could deal with this. He could more than deal with it.

Why hadn’t he come to Burr earlier?

“You have a new boy,” Wilmot said. Sound of glass on marble. “Lucky, lucky. He’s one of the prettiest ones here, I think.”

“Mm,” Burr said. His hand shifted down to Alexander’s jaw, and Alexander followed it, tipping his head up. Dark eyes glanced at him over the rim of the martini glass, and Burr’s thumb brushed over Alexander’s lips. He parted them, and opened his mouth more when Burr’s nail sank into his skin.

“I’m not sure if I’d call him pretty,” Burr said idly. “He has good teeth, at the very least.”

Alexander’s breath hitched. Those words were a knife sliding beneath his skin, slowly peeling it off. He couldn’t duck his head down, so he stared somewhere in the vicinity of Burr’s neck instead. 

Wilmot laughed; a high, cackling sound. “You make him sound like a horse,” he said. When Alexander flicked his eyes upwards, Wilmot was grinning, elbows on the bar top as he looked at Burr.

Still not looking at Alexander, Burr took another sip of his alcohol. Then he turned the glass around, pressing the exact spot of the rim where his lips had touched against Wilmot’s. Tipping the glass forward, he murmured, “A foal. He needs to be broken in.”

There was a strange burning at the back of Alexander’s eyes. His breath hitched again. It wasn’t being talked about like he wasn’t there; it wasn’t being reduced to a horse. It was… it was…. 

Turning his head, he tried to nuzzle against Burr’s hand. “Please, Master.” The words slipped out of him before he knew it, and he winced immediately: he hadn’t been allowed to speak. He hadn’t been told that he couldn’t, but he hadn’t been told he _could_ , and that was… that was more important.

(Why hadn’t he come to Burr earlier?)

Burr set the glass back on the table. He patted Wilmot’s hand. Then he – finally, _finally_ – turned to Alexander.

And backhanded him right across the face. Alexander’s head jerked to the side, but he managed to keep his posture steady.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” Burr said. Alexander couldn’t see him right now; not when there were starbursts of pain covering his vision almost entirely. Burr’s hand gripped his jaw again, pulling him upwards. Alexander’s neck strained as he fought to keep his knees and hips still.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked. There was something undeniably bored in his tone.

_You know my name_ , Alexander almost said. Then he remembered: the club. There were other names to be used in the club. He scrambled for the name he always used. It had been so long since he allowed himself time to be here that he barely remembered.

“Alex,” he blurted out once it came to his mind. “My name is Alex, Master.”

“So you can follow instructions,” Burr murmured. When Alexander nodded, he gave him a small smile, the back of his hand brushing over Alexander’s burning, aching cheek. “But I don’t like your name. It sounds horrid.”

Burr’s lips twisted into a smirk. It was sharp, cruel; _ugly_. Alexander’s heart roared in his ears. 

“I think I should call you _boy_ instead. You should learn to earn your name.”

That was— No. No. Burr could peel off every part of him if he liked, if he wanted to, and Alexander would rejoice in the pain. But his name was something that was scored deep inside him, engraved across his heart, and Burr had _no right—_

__He was surging up before he knew it, words spilling out of his mouth before he could think: “That’s not fair. I followed your rules; I called you by the name you want me to call you by. I’m _here._ I’ve been _good._ I deserve to be called by my name! I deserve to be looked at!” 

His feet were flat on the ground now. There was a burning in his throat; he threw himself forward, grabbing for that glass that Burr was still twirling around his fingers. It didn’t make sense, it wasn’t fair, that Burr was paying more attention to it than to _him._

But his fingers never reached their goal: before he could even take a step, Burr _moved_. He grabbed Alexander by the hair, gripping tight enough to make him yelp. Then there was a sound of a loud _thud,_ and all Alexander could see was marble. Cold. He gasped. 

Like _hell_ he would give up so easily. Immediately, he struggled, fingers scrabbling at Burr’s wrist. Elbow against his neck, right at the knob of his spine. Bone digging against bone. Alexander _snarled,_ a sound from the very depth of his lungs, and he tried to flip himself over; tried to sink his nails into Burr’s wrist. 

Hand on his neck, no- his shirt’s collar. Cloth twisted, tightened, and Alexander couldn’t breathe. He clawed at the hand, tried to reach it at least, but Burr dragged him away from the counter with both hands. Stars, stars, so many of them, exploding behind his eyes. Alexander couldn’t breathe. Elbow slammed into his back, right between his ribs.

Cold floor. Wood: the sound of the impact echoing. Alexander tried to get up, tried to get his feet underneath him, but Burr’s foot was on top of his chest. Burr’s heel right against his sternum, pressing down his diaphragm. 

Alexander gritted his teeth. “Not _fair,_ ” he snarled. One hand reached up, clawing at Burr’s thigh. The pressure on his chest lifted- relief for just a moment. Then Burr kicked away his hand and _stamped_ on it, driving the tip of his shoe right into the centre of Alexander’s palm. Alexander arched, slamming his head against the floor. He drew all the breath he could into his lungs, and screamed. _  
_  
Choking. He was choking. There was water pouring down his face. No- not water. It burned on his tongue. Alcohol. Some of it went into his nose, some down his throat, and Alexander was _drowning_ on the floor and he couldn’t see, he couldn’t even breathe, he couldn’t think—

(Why hadn’t he come to Burr before?)

The liquid stopped. The foot returned to his sternum, but now the weight was far lesser. Alexander turned towards his left side, towards the hand now pinned by something made of metal and rubber. A barstool. He coughed hard, practically hacking up his lungs. Bile on his tongue, twisting sour. He coughed again, sucking in air in between. 

Metal leg lifting off his hand; Alexander drew it close, pressed it against his chest. It ached like it had been set on fire. Soft _thud;_ barstool being set down again. Foot off his chest; foot on his shoulder. A hand on his hair, stroking through, almost gentle before fingers clenched tight around the strands. His mind was a laundry list of Burr’s actions. His body curved, back bowing as he was half-lifted off of the floor. Alexander flailed, but his back slammed once more against hardwood planks. Palm on his sternum. 

“Are you trying to tell me what you deserve?” the voice asked. It sounded mild. Flat. Salt joined sour at the back of Alexander’s throat.

“Yes,” he hissed out.

Another slap, straight on his mouth. This time, the knife wasn’t only skimming his skin off of his body; it sunk deep into him, screwing sideways. Serrated blade. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. Iron on his tongue; heart’s blood.

“You have a long, long way to go before you earn the right to be called by your name, boy.” 

The voice was cold. So cold. Alexander shivered. He could still barely see. Soft hands on his face. A knuckle pressing into the inside of his right eye, making him see stars, making him tear up. Water running down his face. Alexander tried to lash out, but there was another hand grabbing his injured one, a nail driving straight into the injured spot. When he tried to scream, all that escaped from him was a strangled sob.

“Sorry,” he managed to gasp out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Master. I deserve nothing. I should’ve waited until you let me. I deserve nothing. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” 

There was a pause. Quiet whispers that Alexander couldn’t make out through his heaving breaths, his ragged sobs. His eyes hurt. He couldn’t see anything. He focused on his hand, the nail there. Presence, pain; the joining of the two.

His breathing eased.

“You’ll have to earn that forgiveness,” the voice told him. Alexander tried to nod, but could only manage a full-body twitch.

“Are you going to obey me now? Give me words. You’re good with them, aren’t you?”

_Good_. The voice said he was good. He had to try. 

Alexander swallowed. His throat was burning. He parted his lips: “Yes, Master.” His voice was a weak thing; he hoped it was alright; he hoped it was enough to please.

“Flat on your back,” the voice said. Alexander obeyed. “Don’t move.”

Then the heavy, solid presence by his side disappeared. Alexander knew better than to fidget, but he couldn’t – honestly couldn’t – help the way his throat was hitching. He didn’t know what he looked like at the moment, but he could imagine – a complete mess, a disobedient boy who didn’t even deserve to be called by his name, lying right there on the floor of the bar where anyone who walked in could see his shame.

His cock was so hard that it hurt. Another point of pain amidst everything else. But it was familiar; soothing, even. He concentrated on it now that the pressure on his hand was gone.

Footsteps. Alexander forced himself to still, to not turn towards the sound, much less cry out “Master!” like he wanted to. The footsteps stopped – the presence was back by his side – and there was warmth on his face. A wet, warm towel, wiping at his face, at his eyes. Alexander nearly sobbed at the sudden kindness.

The towel slipped past his jaw and down to his neck. A hand was opening his shirt, exposing his chest. Alexander shuddered at the sudden wisp of cold wind on his skin. Wind? No, it was air-conditioning.

(Where was he?)

“Open your eyes, boy.”

Slowly, Alexander did. Burr was sitting there, cross-legged, beside him. The towel in his hand seemed like a weapon with that cold, dispassionate look on his face. Alexander’s eyes really hurt.

Before he could even voice the complaint, however, the hand returned to his hair. His head was tipped back. “Keep your eyes open,” Burr said. Then he did something – Alexander didn’t know what – but there was cold liquid straight on his eyeballs.

“You can blink.”

“Thank you, Master,” Alexander breathed. He blinked rapidly. Somehow, the chill of the fluid sunk into his eyes, removing the burn of the alcohol. The flashing spots faded away, and though his hand and his chest were still on fire, his lungs were drawing in and pushing out air steadily. 

Now he could see it properly: the very familiar and much-missed fog hovering at the edge of his eyes, threatening to envelope him entirely. 

“Knees.”

Alexander pushed himself up. He moved to his knees again, making sure that his posture was perfect. His hands tucked themselves on the small of his back, and he pressed both thumbs into the centre of his injured palm. Pain shot up his arms, twined around his spine, and the fog came even closer. He breathed.

Somehow, despite all that had just happened, Burr still looked impeccably dressed and his barstool was exactly where it had been. The only change was the new glass of vodka martini in his hand.

Wilmot was gone.

“Do you know what you did wrong, boy?” Burr asked. “Do you know why you don’t deserve to be called by your name?”

“I…” Alexander licked his lips.

“Don’t try to lie,” Burr said. He sipped his cocktail as he leaned back against the counter. The tip of his shoe touched Alexander’s chin, tilting his head up. “If you do, I’m leaving, and this will never happen again.”

Oh. No, no. No, Alexander wanted this to happen again. He definitely wanted this to happen again. He would do anything to make sure that this happened again.

Something must have shown on his face – he had never been good at hiding his emotions, especially from Doms and especially from Burr – because Burr chuckled. His shoe went down Alexander’s jaw, past his neck, dirty leather and rubber sliding over the skin of his clavicle before the tip skimmed, feather-light, over his achingly hard cock.

“Master,” he started. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I can’t… I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

Burr raised an eyebrow from behind his martini glass. “That means you just have to try harder,” he drawled.

Try harder. _Try harder._ Alexander shuddered, head dropping backwards. The fog covered him entirely, but it was warm and it didn’t blind him. He could see it right in front of him, a glittering path forward, paved with Burr’s words. At the end… he didn’t know what was at the end of the path. But there was a path.

It was more than what he’d had for years.

“I was disobedient, Master,” he murmured, speaking without need of his mind. “I was rude. I thought I deserved things without earning them. I…” He licked his lips, looking at Burr and seeing shimmering silver in those dark eyes. “I’ll be good. I’ll learn to be good for you.”

“Mm,” Burr said. The tip of his shoe nudged at Alexander’s chest before moving upwards, seating itself on his clavicle. Burr pushed lightly, and Alexander’s breath stumbled again as his throat closed. 

“That’s not good enough.”

Not good enough. Alexander felt himself flush, heat crawling up his neck to his cheeks. His head spun.

“Master, I… I was… I was stupid.” The word tasted ash-bitter on his tongue, but it was true. It was _true_. “I was selfish. I did things and I assumed things about you. I thought I was right about everything. I…” Honest. He should be honest. Burr would want him to be honest; would praise him to be honest. “I still think that I’m right about everything.”

“Even with evidence that you were wrong?”

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut. He was standing on the path, trying to focus on walking down it. But around him… around him he could _see_ : ruby-red lipstick smeared into slashes like open wounds; wide dark eyes, sharp cheekbones streaked with tears; freckles standing out amidst paling cheeks; a flogger dropped to the ground, clattering and clattering; yelling voices, _Why, Alexander, why._ Cowboy hat tilted to a jaunty angle, an ugly sneer. 

_Filth_.

“Sometimes, I…” he licked his lips again, driving his nails hard into the centre of his palm. The pain didn’t chase the images away, only made them more translucent, their voices softer. That would have to be enough.

“Most of the time, I’m right,” he said. “I know I’m right. Most of the time, I’m not stupid. But I make mistakes, Master. I make mistakes and I don’t know… I don’t know when I’m wrong and when I’m right and I don’t know how to make wrong things right again, Master. I don’t know, please, I don’t know.”

Sound of glass against marble. Alexander kept his eyes closed. “Please,” he begged. He had no pride here, within this fog, standing on this road.

_Thump,_ feet on wood, and there was a hand in his hand again, nails scraping over his scalp.

“What are you thinking about, boy?”

Shaking his head, Alexander tried to protest. “No,” he managed to get out, but his head was snapping to the side again. 

“Eliza,” he gasped out. “Maria. John. You.” The hand returned to his head. The names became a litany. It had been so long since he allowed himself to even think about them; so long since he… No, no, he couldn’t even let himself finish the sentence in his head. If he did, the half-translucent ghosts would become real. 

“Eliza. Maria. John. You. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Open your eyes, boy.”

Alexander didn’t want to, but Burr wasn’t making a request; it was an order.

“Master.” He looked up into those cold, dispassionate dark eyes, pleading without knowing what for.

“Do you want to learn from your mistakes?” Burr asked, his voice so soft that it was nearly inaudible.

Learning? That’s not… Alexander closed his eyes. He knew that his answer wasn’t what Burr would want. He knew that Burr would be angry if he voiced it; knew that he would be angrier if he kept his silence.

He didn’t say a word.

“Ah,” Burr said, and that single syllable seemed to hold a wealth of meaning that Alexander couldn’t make out. Burr’s face was unreadable.

“Stand up, boy,” Burr said. When Alexander did, Burr let go of him, stepping back. “Strip.”

Alexander stared, uncomprehending, for long moments. Then Burr crossed his arms and cocked his head, simply waiting. Alexander’s hands went to his shirt buttons and started pulling them out of their holes.

“Don’t bother folding.”

Everything was dropped onto the floor in a wrinkled mess. His belt clacked, loud and unpleasant. Alexander shuddered. He peeled off his boxers, stepping out of them. His hands remained by his sides even though he wanted to cover himself.

Burr walked a circle around him. Burr touched him with the tips of his fingers, barely brushing skin. Burr pressed against his ribs, over his sides, and squeezed one thigh and the other. Alexander didn’t know if he was allowed to close his eyes, but it didn’t matter: the tears came anyway. He drove his short, blunt nails into his still-aching palm, but that only made the tears flow faster.

He was walking down the silver path.

Then Burr took Alexander’s belt from the floor. He looped it around Alexander’s neck, sliding the leather through the box-frame buckle twice without using the metal tongue. It was still too long, dangling off of Alexander’s shoulder, hanging somewhere in the middle of his chest. Burr took the end of it, rubbing it between his fingers. His eyes narrowed.

“C’mon,” Burr said, and he _pulled_.

Alexander followed him, half-stumbling. The belt was still rather new, the leather crisp and inflexible, pressing tightly into the back of his neck and bracketing on the sides. He could still breathe; it wasn’t pressing against his throat. He could only breathe if he reminded himself that it wasn’t pressing against his throat.

Leading him deeper into the club, deeper down the silver path, Burr stopped at a huge wooden cross. It loomed in front of Alexander, strange because it had a pole with a sharp hook at the end in the upper V. Burr took the end of Alexander’s leash, stepped upwards, and drove the hook through the leather. Alexander’s head jerked upwards.

“Master,” he gasped. The leather still wasn’t pressing against his throat. He didn’t know if he wanted it to.

“Hands,” Burr told him, brusque. Alexander raised them, pressed his wrists flat against the wood. He tried to breathe as he was strapped on.

“Feet.” He was in mid-air, weight resting against wood, weight resting almost entirely on his chest with his neck straining upwards. The hook was silver. The path was silver.

_Oh_.

Burr’s hand in his hair. Alexander couldn’t move his head, couldn’t turn; couldn’t look at him no matter how much he tried to move his eyes. “Master,” he repeated again.

“I’m going to give you twenty lashes,” Burr told him, his flat voice a disorientating contrast to the gentle hand stroking through Alexander’s hair. “You will count for me.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Do you know what those lashes are for?”

Alexander nodded. “Yes, Master,” he repeated. “I was rude. I deserved nothing. I have to earn everything I get. Please let me earn your forgiveness for my mistakes. Please let me earn the privilege of you using my name.”

There was a long silence. “You will count every single lash,” Burr said finally. “If you stumble, we will start from the top again.”

“I can do that,” Alexander promised immediately. “I will not disappoint you, Master.”

“What is your safeword?”

“No, I…” Alexander licked his lips. “I don’t need one, Master. I won’t need you to stop.”

Fingers hooked over his makeshift collar; pulled. Alexander choked, stars sparking at the back of his eyelids, visible even through the fog. He couldn’t breathe. “Sorry,” he choked out. “Sorry, sorry.”

Burr let go. “What is your safeword?” he asked again, tone still flat, almost pleasant.

What _was_ his safeword? It had been so long. He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. He needed a new one, then. Words. He needed… He couldn’t think, couldn’t—

“Words,” he blurted out. “My safeword is ‘words’.”

There was a pause. Then Burr did something strange, completely incomprehensible: he _laughed_. A quiet, low huff of a sound, barely more than warm breath against Alexander’s neck, but undeniably a thing of mirth.

Alexander tried to not feel too proud. He made Burr laugh. He made his Master laugh.

“Alright,” Burr said. His tone was flat again. His hand left Alexander’s hair, and he stepped away. Alexander closed his eyes. He waited, listening for footsteps.

He expected something to land on his back, or his ass, or his thighs. A whip, a flogger, or even a cane. All of those he’d felt before. They were familiar. He knew how they felt; knew the sound they made. He could drown in them. He _could_.

Then: a hard _smack_ , sound blunt and strange. Stiff instead of supple. On his shoulder. Alexander gasped, twitching in his bonds. 

“One,” he cried out. “Thank… thank you, Master!”

There was it again: that quiet, huffing laugh. Alexander closed his eyes. The fog was getting warmer, the path brighter. The smack came again.

“Two! Thank you, Master!”

It hurt, but it didn’t hurt as much as it should. Sparks instead of flames. Alexander couldn’t stop _thinking_. He couldn’t stop wondering what it was. He knew better than to turn back to look, but—

“Three! Thank you, Master!”

Oh. 

“Four! Thank you, Master!”

Alexander sobbed. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t move his head. The scent. He knew this scent. 

“Five! Thank you, Master!”

Burr was whipping him with _newspapers_. 

“Six! Thank you, Master!”

It would leave streaks. It would leave him filthy, and he wouldn’t be able to clean it off himself.

“Seven! Thank- thank you, Master!”

Silver path built out of words. In front of him: a black gate. He had been here before, but not for so long. Not since… not since…

Alexander fell into the fog. He let it devour him.

“Eight! Thank you, Ma- Master!”

***

_January 18, Monday_

As Sally drifted back out of the soothing nothingness Eliza brought her into, there was the scent of mint and honey in the air, a quiet off-tune humming in her ear, and gentle fingers rubbing her wrists. She didn’t want to open her eyes, so she didn’t, instead curling into herself even further.

It was when she smelled cinnamon instead of the vanilla that had been surrounding her for the past hour that her mind finally kicked in. Jerking, she lifted her head, blinking. 

“Ms Lewis?” Her voice sounded raspy, hoarse. She tried to clear her throat. “What are you doing here?”

The woman on the couch next to her smiled. She was wearing her customary lipstick, perfectly painted. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Maria, Sally?” she asked, letting out a sigh that blew a strand of her hair out of her face.

Sally bit her lip. “At least once more, I guess,” she said. “Sorry.”

“Shhh,” Maria shushed. Her hands continued their ministrations on Sally’s wrists, rough-edged fingers sliding gently over torn and broken skin. Sally’s breath hitched in his throat.

“I thought you didn’t like this,” Sally said, confused. “I thought you…”

“Eliza called me over before you two started,” Maria said. Raising a hand, she brushed the back of it over Sally’s cheek. “I think you know why she did. I think you know why she left, too.”

Looking down, Sally stared at herself. There were abrasions on her wrists, bruises all over her hips and thighs and calves, cuts on her sides and over the curves of her breasts. She knew that if she looked into the mirror, she would see lash marks and even more bruises all over her back. The wounds were at least a week old. Eliza had left none; she usually didn’t.

“Please don’t be worried,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “I asked for them.”

“Did you, really?” Maria asked. There was no censure in her voice, only gentleness, but Sally felt a deep bite of pain inside herself anyway.

“Yeah,” she breathed out. “I… I don’t have the contracts with me right now. But I agreed to all of them, Ms Lewis- Maria. I agreed to them. It’s okay.”

“I’d believe you more if you could look at me when you say that, darlin’.”

Sally couldn’t help it: she flinched immediately at the word, practically throwing herself backwards. Her eyes flew wide open, and she stared blankly at the older woman. Maria’s hands were hovering in the air, and she was blinking.

“That’s,” Sally started. “I, that’s not, I didn’t.” God, she was making a mess of things, she was making a complete mess and they were going to know. She shouldn’t have done this. She shouldn’t have come to Eliza because she knew that Eliza would _see_ and Eliza would _care_ but she just wanted… she just…

When Maria’s hands found hers, Sally gripped on tightly. There was a sob trapped in her throat that wanted to come out, but she couldn’t force it out. Her throat was too full, her lungs were too full, and she didn’t even know what was inside of her anymore. She only wanted it all to get _out_ of her. 

“Was it the word, Sally?” Maria was asking, voice even but worry undeniable. “Is it because of the last word I said?”

Drawing her knees to her chest, Sally squeezed Maria’s hands tighter. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Sorry. I just…” She shook her head, then rubbed her face over her knees to get some of the strands out of her face.

One of Maria’s hands left hers, the tip of her fingers tucking away those flyaway strands. She stroked over Sally’s curls, slowly. “Is it the word used by the same person who gave you those marks?” Maria asked quietly.

“No,” Sally said immediately. She lifted her eyes to meet Maria’s dark, solemn gaze, and said it again: “It’s not the same person.”

God, things would be so much easier if it were the same person. It would be so much easier if she could be like Maria and point her finger at someone and say, their fault, not mine, not mine at all. But it had never been so easy, not for her.

Detangling her hand from Maria’s, she lifted her hand to her cheek, scrubbing at it. Liquid. Oh, she was crying.

_Him: standing beside his desk, cigarette in his hand, eyes red-rimmed. Him: on top of her, driving into her, sobbing and gasping,_ Martha, Martha, Martha.

Sally stared at her hands. They were shaking. She couldn’t breathe. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Maria take out her phone. She could barely hear her voice even though her lips were clearly moving. Everything seemed to come to her from a faraway place, or as if she was underwater and everything was dulled and discoloured.

Slamming door. Maria’s eyes shifting away from Sally’s face. Her lips moving. A pair of arms around her. Lips in her hair. Sally tried to shake her head, tried to say, _I’m fine_. Her hands were still shaking. Paler, longer fingers around her own, squeezing hard; she could barely feel it. She was underwater and she was drowning.

Dark eyes, a different shape from Maria’s. Sally stared into them blankly. Brown. Like mahogany, she decided. 

Then there were a mouth on hers. Small mouth, plush lips. Not deepening the kiss, not trying to take her mouth. Just staying there, warm air pushing into Sally’s mouth, down her throat, into her lungs. Sally was underwater but it wasn’t an ocean after all, just a swimming pool, and the water was being drained away. And there were two differently-shaped hands holding onto hers.

She gripped onto them and pulled herself out. Her spine curved inwards, her head hanging between her knees. A hand over her back, stroking, nails scraping over skin.

“Eliza,” Sally gasped.

“I’m here,” Eliza told her. Her lips pressed against Sally’s temple. When Eliza nudged at her, Sally obeyed instinctively, shifting on the couch until she was between Eliza and Maria, sandwiched between the two of them as they held onto her. She scrambled for their hands – when had she let go? – and they let her have them, gripping her fingers tight as she pressed her face onto their knuckles.

“S—,” she started. Her breath hitched. Eliza scraped her nails down her back again, carefully avoiding the lash marks. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Shh,” Eliza shushed her.

Sally shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, staring into Eliza’s eyes. “You shouldn’t have to kiss me. It’s my fault. Don’t let Angelica be mad at you.”

Eliza stared at her. Then she smiled, the sides of her eyes curving upwards. Her knuckles brushed over Sally’s cheek.

“My sister told me to make sure that you’re okay,” Eliza said, her voice gentle. “I think she’ll rank that to be higher than just one kiss.”

“Even if Angelica didn’t tell _both_ of us to look out for you,” Maria said from Sally’s other side, her hand tangling with Sally’s. “We would’ve done it anyway.”

Closing her eyes, Sally nodded. She didn’t know why, but it felt as if all of the wind had gone out of her. Maybe it was the scene that had come just before this. It was probably just the scene.

“Can I,” she swallowed. “Can I have some tea?”

“Of course,” Maria said. Sally could almost hear it: the bitten-off endearment that hung in the air, practically solid in its absence. Her breath hitched, and she squeezed tightly on Maria’s hand after she took the cup of tea.

Honey and mint, like it always was with Eliza. The room too, one of the private rooms dedicated to the Schuyler sisters’ use. There was a story there, between Angelica and the owner John Wilmot; a story that resulted in Sally being able to come to the Debauchee without needing to pay any kind of membership fees, that allowed Maria to walk in and out whenever she liked despite the club’s security and Maria’s own disinterest in BDSM; a story that Angelica would tease her with whenever they were sitting together like this, on a similar couch in the room right next door.

Angelica. Sally had been trying her best to not even allow that name to cross her mind too much for the past year. God, Angelica.

“Please,” she blurted out. When the two women looked at her, Sally gulped down more tea, barely even tasting it. “Please don’t tell Angelica about this.”

Maria blinked. “I don’t think she’d mind you with other Doms, even if she didn’t have a prior agreement with them,” she said carefully.

“That’s not why I…” Sally started. She stopped when she noticed that Eliza was making some kind of strange, flailing gesture with her hands and scrunching up her face at the same time. She stared. “Uh.”

Eliza stilled as suddenly as she started. After a moment, her lips stretched out into something that was less of a smile than the facial expression equivalent of a question mark.

“What… are you doing?” Sally asked slowly.

“She was _trying_ to tell me that I was putting my foot into my mouth,” Maria said, her lips twitching. Eliza scrunched up her face again, and stuck her tongue out. “And also that she was doing _exactly_ the same thing herself.”

Sally looked from one to the other. There was something bubbling in her chest, bypassing the heavy weight there. Her shoulders shook. Maria immediately pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her, and Sally opened her mouth, trying to tell her to not worry, but all that escaped her was a strangled sound. She sounded like some sort of insulted goose.

Turning her head, Sally started to laugh. She didn’t know what she was doing, or why everything was suddenly so funny. She just held onto Maria, and grabbed onto Eliza’s hand when the other woman curled around her back, still careful of her wounds. She laughed so hard that her entire body shook with it. The sound of her voice was loud, echoing in the room with its ugliness, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Slowly and definitely uncertainly, Maria and Eliza joined in. They were quieter with it, more giggles than Sally’s loud cackles, but it felt… it felt good, to have their voices join hers. Sally didn’t know why – honestly, she didn’t understand anything anymore – but it eased the weight on her chest. Like someone had been stepping on her ribs, crushing her lungs, and Maria and Eliza managed to push them off her.

Somehow, they managed to regain their composure after a few minutes. Sally uncurled herself, pressing her knuckles into her eyes. There were no tears behind them, so that was… that was fine. Better, at the very least. She inhaled, exhaled, and then did it again. That was better, too.

“Hey,” Eliza murmured. Her arm was still around Sally’s shoulders, and she pressed a kiss into her curls. “You want to tell us what’s going on?”

Sally closed her eyes, forcing herself to not tense up. She knew she should tell. But she couldn’t; she couldn’t, not when she knew that they would turn away from her once they realised what she was doing; when they could finally see just how terrible she was as a person. They were laughing with her just now. They were still taking care of her. They wouldn’t do either – they wouldn’t _want_ to do either – if they knew what was going on.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Maria told her, voice gentle and soft. Sally’s breath tripped over itself again.

“I can’t,” she said, helpless and hopeless. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Shhhh,” Eliza shushed. Her fingers stroked through Sally’s hair again. “You don’t have to. Don’t let us force you into doing something you don’t want to.”

_Force_. Sally squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands tightened around Maria’s, and she turned her head to bury her face into Eliza’s shoulder. _Force_. They would hate her if they knew. They would hate her so much if they knew. 

Angelica once said that people acting terribly out of selfishness could be forgiven if they weren’t entirely aware of what they were doing. Angelica would hate her too if she knew.

“Just…” she said, managing to get her voice working. “I’m not in any kind of abusive relationship. I really did ask for the marks. I really do have the contracts.”

“Yeah,” Maria said, her silky hair brushing over Sally’s arm as she nodded. “I believe you. We believe you.”

“We’re just worried because Angelica told us that you didn’t like pain,” Eliza said quietly. “But if it was something you wanted…”

Sally still didn’t like pain. That was the point.

She pressed her face hard against Eliza’s collarbone until she could feel stars bursting behind her eyes. She breathed in the scent of vanilla, letting it sink into her lungs.

“People’s tastes change, sometimes,” she said. Then, before either of them could reply –if they didn’t then she could maybe believe that she didn’t just tell an outright lie, right? – she continued, “Can I just stay like this for a while?”

“Of course,” Eliza said.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Maria added.

_You would_ , Sally thought immediately. _You would if you knew_.

***

_January 19, Tuesday_

Thomas woke up in a very dark room, in a very familiar bed, with his head aching but not screaming with pain. He sat up. He lifted an arm. The sleeve of his silk sleeping robe stared back at him. He blinked.

The last thing he remembered was the study’s carpet under his cheek, the sight of two empty whiskey bottles in front of him, and his belt digging into his hip.

Something didn’t add up. 

Sitting up, his hand slammed down on the nightstand as the world tilted slightly. His headache increased, but it still wasn’t as bad as it should have been. He blinked again, pinching the bridge of his nose. Something dropped onto the floor when he moved his hand, so he looked down.

His glasses. He hadn’t taken them off last night either. He picked them up. The lenses were clean. They were smudged last night. He looked at the nightstand. 

There, glimmering softly in the dim light coming from behind curtains he didn’t remember drawing, were his silver chain and wedding ring. Thomas hooked his finger underneath the former, lifting it up. He put it on. He put his glasses on too. Then he walked over to the side of his room, and pulled open the curtains.

Dim morning sunlight streamed into the room. The window was cold; Thomas rested his head against the glass. The nose pads of his glasses dug into his skin, but he couldn’t pay attention to that. Not when the memories of last night were rushing to his head.

Madison: looking at him with dark, intense eyes. Madison: standing there above him, a looming figure that made Thomas feel safe instead of afraid. Madison’s hand in his hair. Madison’s voice, commanding him to stand. Madison’s arm around his waist. Madison’s frame against him, solid and warm, bracketing him. Madison’s lips on his. Madison, Madison, Madison. His best friend. His…

He still didn’t know how he had managed to get dressed and into his bed from the binge in his study.

Thomas pushed himself away from the window. He checked the time: seven twenty-three in the morning. He checked the temperature: forty degrees Fahrenheit. He left the bedroom for the study.

The empty bottles of whiskey were gone. The patch where he’d thrown up was wet, but clean. Thomas knelt down next to it, tracing the air above it. It felt cold. He took off his glasses, folded them into the pocket of his sleeping clothes, and pressed his face into his hands. 

Of course.

His breath hitched. His eyes burned. His lips burned. So this was what Hell felt like. Okay.

Standing up, Thomas went back to the bedroom. He grabbed the clothes he needed for work and threw himself in the shower. The hot water didn’t help. The cold water didn’t help. Switching between the two in rapid succession didn’t help. The memories were still there. The knowledge was still there. He had less than an hour before he had to leave the house for the office. There weren’t any razors in his bathroom anyway.

Getting out of the shower, he stood there outside of the stall, staring at the mirror. He didn’t look any different. The window was open; it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to catch a cold from this. His head was pounding behind his eyes. He dried himself off, pulled on his clothes, and went to the kitchen.

Madison was sitting there, drinking coffee and scrolling through his phone. Thomas stood at the doorway, frozen. He stared.

“If you hadn’t appeared within the next ten minutes, I would’ve gone to wake you,” Madison said. He lifted his eyes up, lips curving into a smile. “Morning, Thomas.”

“Morning,” Thomas replied automatically. He was still staring. 

Standing up, Madison went to the coffee machine. He took Thomas’s favourite mug from the rack – the one with the Eiffel Tower with lights that appeared when a hot drink was poured, and which he’d bought in Paris – and poured coffee into it. He also dumped Thomas’s usual two teaspoons of sugar in. Then he stepped closer, holding it out to him.

Thomas took it. When Madison went back to the table, he followed him. His head felt like all of the demons of Hell had moved into it, and were starting up a raucous party filled with the screams of the tormented. The metaphor didn’t make sense. Thomas drank the coffee Madison had made for him.

“What,” he started. His voice was nothing more than a croak. Madison looked up from his phone. His eyes were so dark, a brown that was almost black but with so much more richness, so much more depth. Thomas’s mouth was dry. He drank more coffee.

He licked his lips. Then he told himself that Madison’s eyes didn’t flicker towards his mouth. It was just his overactive imagination brought about by the headache. Even though headaches didn’t usually make him start imagining things. Who knew what kissing a man could do a person, after all?

“I don’t remember what happened last night,” he heard himself say. Oh. Was that what he was going to go for?

Madison looked at him. There was something in his eyes that Thomas knew, something that drove a knife deep inside his chest and twisted. But it couldn’t be there. It definitely couldn’t be there.

“We talked about your case,” Madison said. His hand was making circles around the rim of his mug – _his_ , showing Castle Fontainebleau and bought in the same store in Paris at the same time as Thomas’s – and his eyes dropped down to stare into the liquid inside. “You figured out a good line of argument to use, and you drank quite a bit to celebrate.”

Oh. Was that what happened? Okay.

“Might’ve been a hell of a celebration,” Thomas said. He laughed. It echoed hollowly in the kitchen and his own ears.

“It was quite something, given that you’re the only one who was drinking,” Madison said. His lips twitched up into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’d have asked you to join me, but we both know that’s a bad idea,” Thomas said. That was true: a lot of the medications that Madison took on a regular basis would react very badly to alcohol. Especially with the amounts that Thomas started drinking in the past five years.

He drank more coffee- oh. The mug was already empty. The Eiffel Tower looked dark again. Thomas poked it with a fingertip. 

Madison shook his head. “You should probably get some water instead of more coffee,” he said. 

Thomas stared at him. For a long moment, the words didn’t make any sense at all. What did water or coffee had to do with anything? They were talking about alcohol, weren’t they? Well, they were all liquids…

There was a water bottle thrust in front of his face. Thomas took it instinctively, and watched his hands as they twisted the cap open. The chill filled his throat, and he was swallowing before he even knew it.

Hah. Who knew that he could actually do so many things without needing to pay attention to any of them?

“Where did I put the new arguments that I made yesterday?” Thomas asked.

“You actually typed them all up before you started drinking,” Madison said. He was still smiling, but it looked strained at the edges. “I think you figured out that you probably wouldn’t remember them today.”

Whenever he ended up on a binge, Thomas always remembered everything in the morning. Only the morning; why else would he keep drinking? His lips stretched wide into a smile.

“Well, that’s a good thing,” he said, laughing again. “Because I really don’t remember anything.”

Shaking his head, Madison stood up. He took Thomas’s mug and put both of them in the sink for the servants to wash when they came in. Sad, dull Eiffel Tower and sad, dull Castle Fontainebleau stared accusingly at Thomas. Somehow, the sight made him want to cry.

Man, hadn’t he run out of tears after last night? Tear ducts should really come with some kind of upper limit.

He stood up as well, checking his phone. Eight thirty-seven. That was earlier than he thought. “Are you going straight to work today, or are you heading home first?”

“I have to go home to change,” Madison said, waving vaguely at himself. For the first time, Thomas noticed that he was wearing the same suit as he had yesterday. He didn’t – _didn’t_ – notice the way Madison’s exquisitely-tailored jacket stretched over the broadness of his shoulders and the width of his arms.

“Want me to drop you off?”

“Are you sure you have the time?” Madison frowned. He checked the kitchen clock – the one that Thomas had hung up for him because Madison apparently didn’t like checking time on his phone. 

Thomas waved a hand. “No one is going to report me if I’m late,” he said, grinning. His voice dipped low. “I’m the _boss_.”

Madison blinked. Then his lips twitched upwards on one side. Thomas told himself that the warmth he felt was entirely normal. People felt good when they made their friends laugh, right? Especially when that friend was their best friend.

Where had all of his eloquence gone, by the way? That was the clumsiest bunch of sentences he had ever formed, even in his own head.

“You just made a reference, and I don’t know what the reference is,” Madison said.

“One day,” Thomas said, shoving his hands into his pockets as he headed out of the kitchen, “I’m going to get you up to date with the rest of the world.”

“I’m plenty up to date,” Madison said, but his mouth twitching again. 

So Thomas took a chance.

Reaching out, he tried to swing his arm over Madison’s shoulders, to pull him in like he sometimes did. Before he could, Madison stepped to the side, nearly walked into a table, and then curved around it.

Away from Thomas. Just so Thomas wouldn’t be able to touch him.

Oh. _Oh_.

Thomas couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t- he let his arm drop by to his side. Drove his nails into skin. Wait, he had a better alternative: he took the bunch of keys from the shoe rack – when did they reach the entrance hall? – before he stabbed his own palm hard with the metal.

It didn’t help. That was practically a relief. Except his breath was still coming too short. He still couldn’t breathe properly. His head was spinning, there was grey pressing into the edges of his vision.

Car. Cars. He was in his own garage. It was so useful to be able to keep walking while he was hyperventilating.

“— sure that you’re okay to drive? You have a hangover,” Madison was saying.

So Thomas was _speaking_ as well? That was…

He felt his lips pull into a smile. He heard himself laughing again, and saying, “Better than waiting for the driver.” It was like he had managed to disconnect from his own body and was watching himself go through the motions.

Useful.

“I can drive,” Madison said mildly.

Thomas snorted. “I drive way faster.” He jerked his head towards the car – the usual red Porsche he drove to work, and said, “Get in.”

“That’s not actually reassuring,” Madison informed him, but he got into the car anyway.

They drove to Madison’s house, which was also in Westchester, but further south from Thomas’s mansion in Sleepy Hollow at Irvington. Madison’s house had a better view of the Hudson than Thomas’s own, but it wasn’t nearly as big. Madison had once said that he didn’t need that much space, and completely ignored Thomas’s following suggestion that he should just live with him.

Well, now Thomas knew why. Who would want to live with someone like him, after all? What was it that he had been calling himself all this while without realising it? He… didn’t remember. He’d have to check back in the office.

“Hey,” Thomas said once he was in Madison’s driveway. He reached out helplessly: his fingertips brushed over Madison’s sleeve instead of catching his wrist, because the other man moved away just in time. 

Right. He didn’t want Thomas to touch him. Right. He could deal with that. It was just a small matter of hyperventilation. He could deal with it.

“Thanks,” he heard himself say. Look at that, his voice was level.

“What for?” Madison asked.

“For making sure that I didn’t do anything stupid last night,” Thomas’s mouth continued. Wait, wasn’t he going to say something else? “I might not remember that much, but I know you always do that. So thanks.”

Madison looked at him. Then he smiled. It still didn’t reach his eyes; those dark eyes were filled with a completely different emotion that Thomas told himself, again, that he didn’t recognise.

“Don’t worry about it,” Madison said. “That’s what friends do, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. There was ash on his tongue, but he hadn’t smoked today.

After Madison left the car, Thomas watched him walk up to his house. He still wasn’t breathing properly, and there were still grey specks at the edges of his eyes. He floored the accelerator anyway once he got out of Madison’s driveway.

What was the worst that could happen?

He heard himself greet people when he reached One Hogan Place. His mouth was moving without need for his mind to be plugged in, so he just let it do its thing, only checking in once in a while. He headed straight for his office, shutting and locking the door behind him. He took out the whiskey bottle and rock glass from the safe installed right beside his executive bathroom, and brought them to his desk.

In his briefcase: yesterday’s argument. In his laptop: a completely new set of arguments that Madison wrote for him. Thomas read through the entirety of the latter. He printed it out, put it into a pretty folder, put it into the safe, and deleted the file. While he was at the safe, he put the unused glass back in too.

Then he went back to his desk, twisted open the cap of the whiskey bottle, and took a swig. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, too, because he remembered Madison worrying. Back at his desk again: he looked at the arguments he had spent the last couple of weeks on, took a red pen, and underlined every single relevant phrase.  
 _  
A deviation of the norm, but something that might even be classified as a mental illness; sexual anomaly; a perversion of the sexual instinct; the ability to comprehend an action is compromised…_

He cut out the phrases – luckily, he always hated justified, and aligned left instead, so nothing was weirdly hyphenated. He took another swig of the whiskey. He pasted them on a blank piece of paper. Since the scissors were out already, he stabbed the sharp tip under his thumb, and watched the blood well up. The pain wasn’t piercing enough, so he did it again. A droplet of blood threatened to fall onto the paper. He lifted his hand and watched as the red streaked down his thumb, curving around the heel of his hand, and slid down his wrist.

There was something immensely interesting in the contrast of blood against the darker skin of the back of his hand and the lighter skin of his palm. Something about the colour. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, really. He cleaned up the blood because he had more work to do. He took another mouthful of alcohol. It was starting to taste like nothing. He wondered if he should pour it over the gaping hole under his thumb.

Maybe later. Paper had too much blank space. Thomas remembered what he’d said last night, so he took a black pen and started filling in the space.

_It doesn’t maximise utility; inherently non-reproductive; there’s no purpose to it; isn’t moral either; purely cultural; limited temporally and spatially; people will eventually come to their senses._

Bringing out a roll of tape from his desk drawer, he pasted the paper on his desk, right where he could always see it and no one else could. Then he stood up, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and went to his bathroom. He poured the whiskey over his thumb. It burned, but the fire wasn’t hot enough, so he drank more instead and went back to his desk.

Turning his laptop back on, he grabbed for the Weeks file. The weight of it made his thumb scream. Blood on the green plastic. Thomas wiped it away absentmindedly, and then shoved the tissue against the wound. He watched, sipping whiskey, as the red coloured the white entirely.

There was something interesting about that too.

When his thumb stopped being a distraction, Thomas turned back to his laptop. He looked at the paper on his desk. He opened the file, flipping through the coroner’s report, and all of Munroe’s. All of the evidence was circumstantial. But then again, the only way he could have non-circumstantial evidence was if Weeks gave a confession. That wasn’t going to happen.

So circumstantial evidence it would have to be. Wasn’t there that rumour that he could convince somebody about their mother being some kind of Dionysian worshipper? Never mind. He drank more whiskey.

Then he started to type.

**_End Book I: plunged in the foaming brine_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The owner of the bar is John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester himself. As played by Johnny Depp, because Depp played him in the 2004 movie _The Libertine_. I love the Restoration era of English history. 
> 
> Eliza and Maria have a whole other backstory that happened around eight to nine years before the current timeline. If I have some sort of spare time that’s not already eaten up by writing this fic, and if anyone wants to read it, I will write and post it separately. I already have five POV characters in this one and adding more will just make things messier than it already is. Teaser: Sally’s entirely wrong. Things _weren’t_ easy or simple for Maria and Eliza at all. Nothing in this fic is. Just like absolutely nobody is straight.
> 
> Adding to that point: Angelica and Sally’s relationship is complicated, and more of it will be shown in Book II, which is also where things get even worse. With the exception of Jefferson, no one has hit rock bottom yet. And Jefferson is armed with several shovels. 
> 
> Speaking of Jefferson, he was referencing The Lonely Island’s _Like a Boss_. Also, if you think that he’s crashing too fast and hard… Consider that he’s a man who is very used to being right, and who has built his entire identity on the foundation of his own self-righteousness, and that foundation is falling apart.


	7. you've consumed my waking days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelica’s sabbatical ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Book II: all afire with me_ **
> 
>   
> **Warnings:** First scene: brief mentions of self-harm and suicidal ideations, and depictions of violence; second scene: more depictions of violence; third scene: consensual BDSM-infused sex.

_March 7, Monday_

It was a beautiful near-spring morning: blue skies, thick and fluffy clouds, and a half-warm breeze. The sight would be much more beautiful if there weren’t a series of buildings jutting up towards it, but Thomas would take what he could get. Lifting his whiskey glass, he saluted the skies and took a sip from it. Then he put it down, took a long drag of his cigarette, and flipped through the case file again.

The door opened. Thomas didn’t look up – since he’d started coming up on the roof of One Hogan Place a month or so back, no one actually dared to come up here. And the only person who would dare had landed last night.

She took a seat next to him with her back against the barbed wire fence. It creaked when she leaned her weight on it. Her feet kicked up dust when she drew them upwards, resting her arms on her knees.

“Nice view,” Angelica said.

Thomas raised his head from where he was certainly not reading over the case file again. “Of the sky?” he drawled. “Or the posters?”

Waving a hand, Angelica indicated towards the rooftop door. “Posters,” she said. All of the ‘healthy living’ posters that Thomas had insisted on pasting on the small, squat box on top of the roof and also the water tank when he was first appointed District Attorney. With hotlines to quit smoking and drinking in an obnoxiously large font.

Reaching to his side, Thomas picked up his cigarette pack, popping it open and drawing a cancer stick out with his lips. He grinned at Angelica even as he lit it.

“Eighteen months of sabbatical, and that’s the first thing you say to me?” he asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

Angelica held out her hand. He dumped his pack and lighter in it, watching her long fingers and thin wrists as she lit up her own. There was a reason why those posters were there: aside from politicians, lawyers were the greatest upper-middle class consumers of cigarettes and alcohol. Thomas used to be the exception.

“I can also tell you that you look like shit,” she said, smoke curling out between her lips. Her dark lipstick left a stain on the white cigarette filter. “But I figured that you already know that.”

“How could you tell?” Thomas asked, sarcasm thick in his tone.

“Well,” Angelica started. She reached over him, grabbing his glass of whiskey and downing the rest of it. “You’re getting dust all over your thousand-dollar suit, you’re up here instead of swivelling around your office being a complete nuisance, the cheap-ass cigarettes you’re smoking which say that you’re going into chain-smoking, the cheap-ass whiskey that you’re drinking…”

She paused. Her dark eyes rested on him for a long moment as she took a deliberate drag. “Should I go on?”

“Sure,” Thomas said, shrugging. She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know anyway.

“The bags under your eyes which I’ve never seen before,” Angelica continued, now moving to ticking off her manicured fingers. “And, most of all, I’ve been here more than five minutes now, and you haven’t started flirting with me yet.”

“Maybe I just don’t want you to throw me off the roof,” Thomas suggested.

Waving a hand, Angelica snorted. Thomas picked up the ashtray on the other side of him, holding it out to her. She flicked the ash onto it.

“If I wanted to do that, I already would have,” she said. A grin twitched at the corner of her mouth. “You know that I’d be able to get myself out of any possible charges.”

There was no arguing that, Thomas knew. If he hadn’t moved from Virginia five years ago, if he hadn’t had seniority and experience both over her, she would’ve been the one sitting in his abandoned office right now. And probably doing a better job of it too.

“Hey,” he said. When she looked at him, he shifted his cigarette to the other hand, reaching out and barely brushing his fingers over her jaw. “Welcome back. I’ve missed you.”

She looked at him for a long moment, unblinking. Keeping her gaze, he groped for the ashtray, lifting it to catch the falling ash from her cigarette right before it dropped to the ground.

“Careful there, darlin’,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want to have to reprimand you for littering your workplace the first day you come back.”

That seemed to break some kind of tension between them, because Angelica threw her head back and laughed: loud, rich, and boisterous; like it always was. The precise laugh that drew him to her the first time they met when he originally came into this very building; exactly the same laugh she gave him when he’d tried to proposition her five minutes later.

Thomas shrugged, an actual smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he leaned back against the fence.

“You really do look like shit if that’s all you can manage,” Angelica said once she caught her breath.

“More chances for you to get my job,” he said, staring up to the skies. Belatedly, he waved a hand.

“I don’t want your job if I’m only getting it when you’re off your damned game,” she snorted. “Is it the case?”

“Which case?” Thomas asked, even though he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“You only have _one_ case,” Angelica pointed out, rolling her eyes. She stubbed her cigarette out on the ashtray. “So, is that it?”

“Haven’t finalised the argument yet,” he said. Slanting his eyes towards her, he took the last drag from his cigarette and tossed it into the ashtray as well. “Why, do you want to help?”

“Why, don’t you have Madison to help you?” she asked in the exact same tone.

Thomas didn’t freeze. He didn’t flinch. He’d learned not to in the past month and a half. Who once said that old dogs couldn’t learn new tricks?

“Always good to have an extra pair of ears,” he said instead. He even managed to insert some kind of dryness into his tone.

“Less than an hour since I see you again, and you’re already asking me to do your job,” Angelica drawled. “How did you manage to survive?”

Snorting, Thomas uncapped the whiskey bottle, pouring out another couple of fingers into the glass. He took a long gulp of it. “Maybe that’s why I look like shit,” he said. “A year half of having to do my job all by myself.”

“Or maybe it’s all of the liver-murder that’s going on.”

“Should I call the police on you for being an accessory to murder, then?”

“It’s not dead yet, is it? Can’t have a murder without a corpse.”

They hadn’t talked for the entirety of her sabbatical. No exchanges of emails, no real contact beyond the brief glances Thomas took once in a while of her Twitter and Instagram, and she didn’t update either frequently. He hadn’t even been there to send her off – he’d had a meeting with someone who was supposedly important at the time.

Yet, somehow, they managed to fall right back into their old patterns the moment they saw each other again. 

At least this was going right.

“In all seriousness, though,” Angelica said, stretching out her legs with her eyes fixed on him. “Don’t tell me that you’re going the whole ‘BDSM is unethical and immoral’ route, because that’s not going to work.” She took a deep breath.

“I know,” he said, cutting her off before she could begin. Too late, he realised that he might have given himself away. “I mean, I’m not going to.”

But of course Angelica wouldn’t be fooled by that. Her eyes narrowed. “You _know_ ,” she repeated.

He shrugged, looking away from her to stare up to the skies. “Yeah,” he said. “Heard it all already.”

There it was again: another trip-up. Thomas really was terrible at lying to anyone other than himself. 

“From whom?”

“Are you trying to get me to reveal my sources?” he asked, still evasive even though he was starting to suspect that it wouldn’t work.

“No,” she said. After a moment: “Hm.” Then she fell silent. Her gaze was almost a physical weight upon him. Thomas tried to brush it off by lighting up another cigarette, closing his own eyes as he parted his lips and let out a deep, heavy exhale of smoke.

“If that’s all you came up here to tell me, you can go now,” he said, taking a gamble.

It didn’t work: Angelica only snorted. “Okay,” she said. She leaned over him, and he plucked the cigarette pack off the rooftop, handing it over to her, still without turning. He heard her light it up; heard her exhale. He took another drag himself, and shoved down the too-familiar and much-missed voice that told him that he shouldn’t smoke so damned much. 

The voice was absolutely ridiculous anyway. Madison hadn’t said a word about his drinking or smoking during any of their meetings over the last month.

They sat like that in silence. Thomas knew that he should catch Angelica up on work, but he couldn’t bring himself to make even the token effort. She was more than smart enough to do it all by herself anyway.

Finally, she broke the silence: “So you want to tell me about the arguments you’re actually going for?”

“How much do you know about the case?”

“Probably at least half of what’s in that file,” Angelica said. Her dark green nails tapped against the very thing.

Thomas blinked. Finally, he turned and looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t have much to catch you up on, do I?” he asked dryly.

“Nope.” When he continued to stare at her, she laughed again, shaking her head. A lock of hair came loose from her ponytail, and she brushed it away impatiently. “The Internet exists, Jefferson.”

Maybe it was the sound of his name on her lips. Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen her for two years, all of the shields he made to protect himself against her striking exquisiteness worn away. Maybe he was just tired of doubting, of questioning, and she was simply convenient.

Reaching out, he sunk his hand into her hair, pulled her in and crashed their mouths together. She stilled immediately against him, tense, and he nipped at her bottom lip to show that he was serious about this.

Then there was a fist on his shoulder, punching him away. A hand over his face. Her palm was right over his mouth, and his lips were still parted: he licked her skin, and tasted salt and hand moisturiser.

It did nothing to him.

“I didn’t think we’d have to repeat a conversation from five years ago,” she said. Her voice was still calm, irritatingly so. Thomas looked at her.

He stubbed out the cigarette, and snatched hers out of her hand and stubbed it out too. Then, shifting to his knees, he grabbed her by the shoulders, using his broader and longer frame to bracket her as he shoved her against the fence and kissed her again. This time, he shoved his tongue past her teeth.

This time, she bit down, and her knuckles slammed right into the hollow of his throat.

Thomas coughed, rearing backwards. Pain burst at the back of his eyelids. He heard a sharp _smack_ , skin hitting skin, and his cheek was suddenly on fire. He fell onto the ground, slamming his shoulder against concrete. The pads of his jacket blunted the impact; a pity.

“There’s something really fucking wrong with you,” Angelica said, and Thomas couldn’t help but grin because she was swearing; he made her swear while she was still at work. 

“Whatever it is, don’t take it out on me.”

“Can’t,” Thomas started. He coughed again. His throat felt bruised from her punch. He rubbed at it, lifting himself off of the ground with an elbow. “Can’t a man feel horny without having someone saying there’s something wrong with him?”

Tipping his head up, he met her eyes. His lips spread wide, baring teeth. “Men are supposed to be ready to go at any time, remember?’

Her eyes were cold on him. Slowly, she bent one leg, knee touching the concrete. Thomas watched her, mind half-blank, as her hand sunk into his curls and gripped tight, nearly pulling the strands out from his skull.

That. That was. Thomas couldn’t help it: he gasped, back arching, trying to tilt his head backwards into her hand. He couldn’t: she gripped his hair even tighter, and there was a sudden light in her eyes.

As if she was looking at him for the first time. As if she had solved some sort of mystery.

The fog that was trying to descend in his head was immediately punched away by that look. Thomas made a sound, inarticulate and incoherent, and _wrenched_ himself away from her. Pain pricked at his scalp, and when he glanced at her hand, he could see the remnants of a few curls. He jerked away from the sight, and locked up the _thing_ that was trying to sink from his chest to his stomach.

God, he could barely breathe. The lump was now in his throat; he locked it up. His hand scrambled at his side, grabbing hold of the glass somehow. He tossed it back, feeling the burn of the alcohol scorch that thing that was in his throat.

Its corpse was still there. It would come back. He knew that by now, but he drank more whiskey anyway.

When his head was clear enough for his eyes to plug back in again, he realised that she was still standing there.

“Don’t,” he said, voice hoarse and nearly shaky. “I- look, just don’t.”

Angelica didn’t move. She didn’t speak. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, turning himself around until he was flopped back against the fence. He resisted the urge to press a nail against the underside of his thumb; that wound kept healing despite his best efforts.

“That,” Angelica said, the syllable long and drawn-out, “should have been my line.”

“I,” Thomas swallowed. Fuck. What the hell had he _done_? There were lines drawn at work, lines he couldn’t cross no matter his position. Hell, _because_ of his position.

Maybe drinking at work was a bad idea. He should’ve known that whatever it was that was keeping him functioning without paying full attention would’ve run out eventually.

Quiet shuffling. A thump. Angelica still hadn’t left; had, for some reason, sat back down next to him.

“What the hell is going on with you?” she asked. There was actual concern in her voice.

Thomas shook his head. He grabbed the whiskey bottle, staring at the amber liquid for a long moment. He’d bought this just yesterday. It was already nearly empty. He twisted open the cap and poured the remains down his throat.

“Sorry,” he said, once the burning had stopped. He turned around and looked into her eyes, let her see whatever that was in his own because he honestly didn’t have anything left to lose right now. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t professional of me.”

At least he still knew how to do this.

“You know,” Angelica said. “I’d believe that apology a lot more if I wasn’t absolutely sure that you’re just going through the motions.”

“I’m not,” he protested immediately. He rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. He didn’t try to smile – she wouldn’t believe it – but he met her gaze again. “Just… I’ve forgotten how to apologise properly. That make sense?”

“No,” she told him, blunt as always. He closed his eyes, biting back a laugh. He bit back the urge to curl into a ball, too.

At least he’d stopped wanting to just climb over the fence and let himself fall. That had been a trip. A good thing too: he was pretty sure that Angelica would nag him even more about not being okay if he tried to do that in front of her.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he sighed. “I really am fucking sorry,” he said. To his surprise, he found that he meant it too. “It’s just…”

He trailed off. Over a month and a half, and he still didn’t know how to put all this into words. It was damned funny, really, because that was his _job_ , and he would have to present this case by the end of the month. If he showed any weakness, then…

Well, Hamilton and Burr both had reputations of their own.

“If,” Angelica started. Thomas blinked, looking up at her. There was a small smile curving up her lips. For reasons Thomas couldn’t discern, it looked uncertain.

She licked her lips. “If you don’t think that you can deal with this case, then I can take it over for you,” she said.

Thomas stared at her. That was… It was a solution, wasn’t it? If he just pushed the case to her, then he could get rid of this thing inside his chest. He could look Madison in the eye properly again instead of having to step outside his body in order to do it. He could…

Throwing his head back, he laughed. A high-pitched cackle, worse than the laughter he used in the courtroom when he was mocking defence lawyers for their weak arguments. Back when he still took cases.

Back. What he really needed was a way to reverse time, wasn’t it?

“What happened to not wanting my job when I’m off my game?” he asked. The words came easily, almost too easily. As if his laughter managed to snap something clean inside him.

Angelica was looking at him again. The smile was gone; Thomas missed it. He could almost fool himself into thinking that Angelica was on ground as quicksand-soft as himself if she smiled like him.

“Yeah,” she said, voice quiet enough that Thomas had to lean in a little to hear her. “That’s the thing, isn’t it?”

He laughed again, helplessly. “Guess so.”

They fell silent again. Even though the silence was sitting more comfortably between them this time, Thomas looked around anyway. The whiskey bottle was empty, but… He picked up the cigarette pack, shaking it. He drew out one, and offered the box to Angelica.

“Last one,” he told her. “Want it?”

“You’re going to stop smoking for the day?” Angelica asked. She took the cigarette anyway, and leaned in to let him light it for her before his own.

“Nah,” he said. His shoulders shook, just slightly. “I have a whole carton back in the office.”

Her eyes narrowed on him again. She drew in a deep inhale, and blew it into his face.

“Consider this me thwarting your efforts to give yourself a slow death, then,” she drawled.

Thomas grinned. Of course she would catch onto that. He tipped his head back, leaning against the fence, and glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. Lifting the cigarette, he saluted her with it before he took a drag.

“By making your own efforts towards said slow death,” he said. “Or is it something different?”

“Definitely something different.”

They finished smoking without saying anything more. It was nearly comfortable, sitting here with Angelica. Though it still felt as if his chest was too small for his lungs, it was a little easier.

Killing the cigarette, Thomas stood up, picking up the file, the ashtray, the empty bottle and pack. His lips twitched into a smile that didn’t feel too forced.

“I meant it, you know,” he said quietly as they walked towards the roof door. “I missed you.”

She stopped, her hand freezing halfway to the doorknob. Shaking her head, she laughed, quiet and low, before she pushed the door open.

“Yeah,” she said, turning back to meet his eyes. The lines on the sides of hers were creased upwards, though her lips remained still. “Me too, you bastard.”

Dumping the trash, he asked, “Want to go to my office and talk about Paris?” 

That got a snort out of her, and something close to a grin. “It was _London_ ,” she said, even though both of them knew that wasn’t really what he meant. “And some of us actually have work to do.”

“Am I supposed to feel insulted?” Thomas asked, lifting an eyebrow again. “Because I feel insulted. My work ethic is impeccable.”

The stairway echoed with the sound of her full, rumbling laughter. Thomas caught her elbow before she threatened to trip on her next step. Her eyes glanced towards his hand, then back up to his face. He shrugged.

“Alright,” she said, which both was and wasn’t in response to his words. She pulled out of his grasp, and her hand brushed across the end of his sleeve, almost touching the skin of his wrist. He ducked his head, and tried to not hug the file close.

That was new. It made as much sense as everything else.

They headed back down. She went to her office; he went to his.

This time, he didn’t get out the alcohol. He didn’t look at the Weeks file either. There was plenty of other work he had to do.

When his phone chirped with the particular tone he set for Madison’s messages, he didn’t need to drink before he checked it.

***

_March 7, Monday_

Rows upon of rows of neat little suburban houses in front of him; it almost didn’t look like Queens. Alexander checked his notebook again, hoisting his backpack further up his shoulders. The street name he took from the law firm’s database was correct: unless Burr hadn’t updated his contact information recently, this was where he lived.

He took a deep breath and kept walking, eyes narrowed upon the numbers stamped on the doors. Burr still hadn’t told him where he lived even after a month and a half of… doing whatever it was they were doing together. The trial was three weeks away. They needed to talk; they needed to discuss further and solidify their arguments.

Alexander found the correct number. There were lights on inside, spilling even through the closed blinds, bright enough to light up parts of the streets. He took another deep breath, shoved his notebook back into his backpack, shortened the straps, and knocked.

No sound of footsteps. Were the door and walls of the house really that thick? Alexander bit his lip, debating with himself for a moment. He was midway through raising his fist again when the door opened.

The person standing there was a woman. Black, in her early thirties at most, with long hair tied up into a bun and kept away from her face with a scarf. She was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. She was looking at him, brows creased and an irritated twist to her mouth.

“Look, I know that you guys are working hard,” she started. “But we really, really don’t need anything. Not any television channels, not any products, and certainly not religion.” 

Blinking, Alexander opened his mouth. Did she think he was some kind of door-to-door salesman or even Jehovah’s Witness? Well, okay, he could see why – he had come work, so he was still in his usual suit. 

“Goodnight,” she said briskly, and made to close the door.

“Wait,” Alexander said, putting his hand on the doorframe. “I… I’m not here to sell anything. I’m looking for Burr?”

She blinked.

“Aaron Burr,” he clarified. “I’m his colleague? You might have heard of me. My name is Alexander Hamilton.”

“Oh,” she said. Her eyes scanned him from head to toe, and Alexander tried to not fidget. He also resisted the urge to tug on his ponytail.

After a moment, she laughed. “You don’t look like what I have been imagining you would,” she shook her head. “I was definitely expecting someone…” She shrugged. “Aaron has told me quite a few stories about you.”

It took Alexander a couple of seconds to realise that ‘Aaron’ meant ‘Burr’. It was such a strange thing to hear the man being referred to by his first name – Alexander had known him for upwards of ten years now, and Burr had always been… well, Burr.

“There have been quite a few pictures of me around the news lately,” he heard himself say. That was true – the media seemed to have a love affair with this particular case, and Alexander and Burr’s official photographs – from the firm’s website – had been splashed all over the news.

But that wasn’t exactly what he wanted to say.

“We’re not really fans of the news,” the woman told him, a little dry. She pulled the door open further. “Anyway, he’s home. He didn’t mention anything about having a visitor, but maybe it’ll be good for there to be another adult in the house aside from the two of us.”

“Thank you,” Alexander said automatically. He hesitated, because he just realised that he still didn’t know her name.

“Sarah Burr,” she said, holding out a hand.

Wait a fucking minute, Burr had a _wife_? He had a—

“Aaron’s sister,” she continued.

Oh. Alexander took the hand, and shook it, making sure that he didn’t go with his usual crush-the-bones grip because she wasn’t – _wasn’t_ – someone he needed to intimidate.

“He never mentioned you at work,” he said. His voice sounded dull to his own ears.

Laughing, Sarah shook her head. She closed the door and locked it again. For the first time, Alexander realised that the door had a keypad _and_ a fingerprint scanner. 

What the hell?

“I’d be surprised if you knew I existed, if you work with him,” Sarah was saying as she led him further into the house. “Aaron has always been close-mouthed.” Her eyes slanted towards him, and there was the faintest of smile on her lips.

Alexander decided that he liked Burr’s sister so much more than Burr himself. At least she had the ability to act like a human being.

She led him down the hallway to what was obviously the main living room of the house. The television was switched on, and _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ was playing – Frollo was singing to the fire. Alexander opened his mouth to tease Burr about watching a Disney movie when he was an adult male, to say something disparaging at least, but then Sarah led him around the couch and he saw _her_.

No, not Sarah. _Her_. The little girl, sitting in Burr’s lap, leaning her cheek again his arm. The little girl who blinked at to Alexander with a pair of _very_ familiar dark eyes and immediately scrambled off of the couch, scampering across the carpeted floor towards him.

“Hi,” she said. Her eyes were wide on him. “Who are you?”

“Uh,” Alexander said eloquently. He was pretty sure that his brain had been entirely shorted out within the past couple of seconds.

“Hamilton,” Burr said. There was a note in his voice that Alexander was becoming more and more accustomed to. He stood up from the couch, posture immediately ramrod-straight. He didn’t cross his arms, of course, but the way he was standing practically radiated disapproval.

Alexander bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t give into the urge to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Now wasn’t the time. Now was _definitely_ not the time.

“Your name is Hamilton?” the little girl asked. She reached out, tiny fingers tugging on Alexander’s sleeve. “Is that your given name or your surname?”

“My last name,” Alexander managed to say, kickstarting his brain back into gear. He pasted a smile on his face; one that might look exactly like Burr’s. “What about you? What’s your name?”

“I’m Theo,” she said, pressing a hand to her own chest. She beamed up towards him. “Are you Daddy’s friend?”

 _Daddy_. Alexander’s brain immediately threw up a series of very loud expletives, in English and Spanish and French, all at the same time. He gritted his teeth together and hissed out a breath through them. 

“We’re colleagues,” he said. Then he scrambled for something else to say so that he wouldn’t end up spilling something completely untoward to this kid- to _Theo_.

“Why do you say ‘given name’ instead of ‘first name’ and ‘surname’ instead of ‘last name’?”

Theo blinked. She cocked her head to the side. “Because some people’s given names don’t come before their surnames,” she said in a tone that implied that he was stupid. Alexander tried to not bristle. The kid couldn’t be more than _five_ , he reminded himself. There was no use getting insulted over someone that young thinking him to be stupid.

“Yeah?” he asked instead. “Like who?” After a moment, he realised that he was being rude, making her crane her neck up like that. So he dropped his pack down onto the carpet, and went down on his knees so he could look her properly on the eye.

In response, she patted him on the cheek. Alexander blinked. His heart did a weird little flip-flop. 

Again, what the _hell_?

“There are the Chinese, and the Koreans, and the Japanese,” Theo said, ticking off her fingers. “Those are the ones I know about right now.”

“Uh huh,” Alexander nodded. He put on an interested look. “You mean… the Asians?”

Theo frowned again. “That’s _rude_ ,” she informed him primly. For some reason, that warranted a bop on his nose. Alexander did his best to resist crossing his eyes so he could stare at the spot where she had touched.

“Why?”

“You can call all the bunnies the same kind of bunny, but there are still different kinds of bunnies and they all look different,” Theo said.

Wait, what? Alexander stared. What did bunnies have to do with Asians? Well, he knew an Asian – a half-Chinese – who was as cute as a rabbit, but— _Stop right there._

“She watched Zootopia over the weekend,” Burr said, his voice cutting smoothly into the conversation. “So everything comes down to animal metaphors right now.”

As Alexander watched, Burr dropped his hand on top of Theo’s head, ruffling the curls. The girl squeaked, batting at his wrist without actually trying to get away.

Then Burr dropped down as well, the back of his fingers innow stroking over Theo’s cheek. “I’ve got to talk to Hamilton now, to see why he’s here,” he told the girl softly. “See, I wasn’t expecting him, so it has to be something important.”

Theo blinked. She cocked her head. “Does this have to do with that big-big case of yours, Daddy?”

“Most likely,” Burr said. Alexander ignored the sideway glance he threw him. “I don’t know. That’s why I need to talk to Hamilton.”

“Okay,” Theo nodded. She grinned at her father, then turned around and aimed the full force of it at Alexander himself. “Don’t take too long, okay? I still want to talk to… to Mr Hamilton?” Her voice lilted up slightly at that, as if in question.

Alexander paused. Should he… No, he wasn’t going to bring this girl into whatever that was between him and Burr. “Mr Hamilton is fine,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “Though I’m not a teacher.”

“Of course not,” she said, shaking her head hard enough for her curls to fly every which way. “Teachers don’t work with Daddy. Daddy’s not a teacher.”

“Exactly.” This time, it was Sarah who cut in. She had been standing off to the side, watching the entire scene with a look in her eyes that Alexander didn’t recognise and didn’t know her well enough to even begin guessing. But her gaze was clear now, full of nothing but doting affection as she placed a hand on Theo’s shoulder, leading her back to the couch. “C’mon now, Theo.”

“Okay,” Theo nodded. She climbed up onto the couch, leaning against her aunt’s shoulder. She waggled her fingers at Alexander. “See you in a little bit, Mr Hamilton.”

Meeting her eyes, Alexander nodded. Then he picked up his backpack and followed Burr out of the living room.

They went up the stairs, past three different closed doors – one that was obviously Theo’s given that it had little crayon-drawings of unicorns at the bottom – before Burr threw open the last one. Alexander stepped inside, noted that it was clearly the study, before he turned around and waited until the door was closed.

He took the initiative: “I didn’t know you have a daughter,” he said.

Burr didn’t look at him. He adjusted his sleeves. The effect was very much blunted by the turtleneck he was wearing. “What are you doing here, Hamilton?” he asked.

Like hell was Alexander going to let him off that easily. He took a step forward, crossing past the invisible boundary that Burr always held around himself and into his personal space. “You didn’t,” he said slowly, “tell me that you have a _daughter_.”

There was a moment of absolute stillness. Burr still wasn’t looking at him. Then those dark eyes lifted, meeting his, and Alexander barely had the time to brace himself before he was slammed against the door. 

His backpack blunted the impact; muted the sound. He drew his lips back and bared his teeth.

“What’s wrong, Burr?” he mocked. “Have I touched upon something that I shouldn’t have?”

Those eyes narrowed. “Hamilton,” Burr said, every single syllable of the name carefully enunciated, “you know that I don’t mix professional and personal matters.”

Alexander couldn’t help it: he threw his head back, smacking it against the wood of the door, and _laughed_. That was… Burr had the gall to…

“I think,” he said, with precisely the same level of deliberation, “that we crossed that line long ago.”

Shifting his weight onto one shoulder, he lifted a leg, wrapped it around Burr’s waist, and thrust himself forward. His shoe’s heel dug into Burr’s back, and Burr lost his balance, both palms slapping the wood beside Alexander’s head, barely missing his face.

They were close enough for their breaths to mingle, now. Alexander kept his eyes on Burr. He smiled, twisted and ugly.

“Don’t you agree?”

Burr met his gaze for a moment. Then he pushed himself of the door, regaining his equilibrium with a grace that Alexander viciously hated in that moment. Alexander avoided the hand grabbing for his ankle, settling his own weight back down on the floor. 

“That’s a completely different thing,” Burr said. “And you know it.”

What? Alexander stared. “No, it’s _not_ ,” he blurted out, unable to keep the incredulity out of his tone. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Of course I am,” Burr said. Infuriatingly, his tone hadn’t even wavered from his usual calm. He cocked his head to the side, the weight of his gaze growing until it was almost a physical weight pressing down on Alexander’s lungs.

“I’m not like you.”

“Well, no,” Alexander grinned. He allowed himself to revel in the slight widening of Burr’s eyes for a moment, then he threw out: “In our particular story, _I’m_ Elric Sands. _You_ are Levi Weeks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you won’t even have a contract to protect you.” They never did get down to actually setting out the terms, after all. If Alexander was honest with himself, he _didn’t_ want to sit down with Burr and outline a contract. It would spoil what they had. 

A scene wouldn’t be fun if his brain wasn’t screaming constantly about the very real possibility of Burr killing him.

Turning his attention back to the man instead of his own head, he noticed that Burr’s eyes were cold again. Alexander opened his mouth, but Burr shook his head, hooking his thumb into the pockets of his well-worn jeans.

“That’s not what I mean,” Burr said, voice even and measured. “Unlike you, I actually know how to keep my personal affairs _personal_ instead of spilling them all for the world to know in some attempt to _brag_.”

Alexander’s breath hitched. His nails dug into his palms.

This time, it was Burr’s back that slammed against the door. “You don’t know _anything_ ,” Alexander hissed, his eyes narrowing. “So shut the hell up. Don’t you dare—”

“What, assume?” Burr asked. His eyebrows lifted. Despite his position, he still looked calm. “You’re the one who has been spilling out every single way you have messed up your life for the past six weeks, Hamilton. That’s not assumption, is it?”

It was as if Burr had slid a knife between his ribs. No- as if he had _shot_ Alexander, sent a bullet straight into his spine. He stumbled backwards, breathing hard. His head spun. He opened his mouth—

There was a knock on the door. “Daddy?” A small, high voice. “Mr Hamilton?”

The two of them exchanged a glance. Immediately, Alexander clicked his mouth shut, and Burr threw himself away from the door as if it was on fire. They looked at each other again. Alexander waved towards Burr’s waist where the sweater had ridden up, Burr jerked his head towards Alexander’s hair and backpack.

Burr tugged down his turtleneck. Alexander dumped his backpack on the floor and retied his hair faster than he ever had in his life.

“Yes, sweetie?” Burr called out. To Alexander’s relief, his voice had a tremulous note in it, audible if one was listening hard enough.

“I brought cookies for you and Mr Hamilton,” Theo said from the other side of the door. “Because it’s very late, you’re still working, and you deserve a reward.”

Alexander blinked. Before he could say a word, however, Burr was already opening the door, going down on one knee. Theo was gripping tight onto a plate of cookies, and Sarah was standing beside her, holding two glasses of milk. Alexander immediately went to relieve the latter of her burden while Burr plucked the plate from Theo’s hands.

“That’s very,” Alexander said. His voice cracked, just a little. “That’s very sweet of you. Both of you. Thank you.”

“Theo’s idea,” Sarah said, sounding amused. There was something strange about the way she was looking at Alexander. Come to think of it, she had been so careful to not touch him… 

There were bells shrieking in Alexander’s head. He shut them up. If there was anything he’d learned, it was that making assumptions about Burr was simply dooming himself. That applied to the rest of his family as well, he supposed.

Family. Burr with a family. Fuck. What the fuck.

“Does Mr Hamilton like cookies?” Theo’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I didn’t know, but…”

“Everyone likes cookies,” Alexander interrupted. She was chewing on her own lip, looking a little uncertainly in his direction, so he put down the glasses of milk on Burr’s desk and grabbed one of the things from the plate in Burr’s hands, chomping down hard on it. Then he slapped his hand over his mouth so he didn’t spill crumbs all over the carpeted floor. He chewed as quickly as he could, and swallowed.

“This is great, Theo!” he grinned. “Did you make it?”

Theo nodded. “Yep!” she said, giving him a wide, shining grin. “Aunt Sarah helped, too!”

Which meant that Sarah actually made these, while Theo was allowed to do whatever kids her age – whatever it was – were allowed to do in kitchens. Alexander shoved down the urge to smile.

“Thank you,” he told her solemnly instead. “They’re very much appreciated.”

“Cookies were exactly what we needed,” Burr added. He ruffled Theo’s hand with his free hand, and she let out a tiny squeak before hugging his leg.

“Don’t work too hard, Daddy,” she said, voice a little muffled against denim. “Aunt Sarah and I will be waiting for you downstairs to finish watching the movie with us.”

“Okay, okay,” Burr said. He leaned down, kissing her hair. Alexander looked away. His chest ached, the hollow within it twisting and twisting. He stared out of the window and reminded himself that he’d carved the insides out himself, so he had no reason to care.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched as Burr ushered Theo and Sarah back out of the door. He gave them both a small grin.

The door closed. Alexander popped the other half of the cookie into his mouth. He chewed.

“She’s a cute kid,” he said when he realised that Burr wasn’t going to break the silence. Even after so long, Alexander couldn’t seem to learn.

“Yeah,” Burr said. He dropped the plate on the desk, then pulled out the chair behind it. Seated with his elbows resting on his knees, he looked up to Alexander. “Nothing like me, I know.”

“Wouldn’t say that,” Alexander snorted.

Burr raised an eyebrow. He shrugged.

“I don’t know shit about you because you say nothing,” he said, licking at his fingertips to get rid of the last of the crumbs. Burr’s eyes were still on him, so he continued: “You might be cute as hell baking on the weekends with your wife, sister, and daughter, for all I know.”

“No wife,” Burr said.

Alexander’s eyes darted towards him. He blinked. “What?”

“Dead,” Burr said.

That was… Alexander honestly, genuinely didn’t know what the hell to do at the moment. This was unprecedented. This was Burr actually offering up information about himself, without prompting or prodding, without even any kind of _asking_. This was Burr willingly, actively correcting Alexander’s misconceptions instead of just letting them lie where they were like he usually did.

He swallowed. “I’m… sorry…?” he tried.

Burr shook his head. He stood up, grabbing a cookie and nibbling on it. “Thanks,” he said.

“Huh?” What the hell?

“You were good with her,” Burr said. He shrugged. “To her, too.”

Wait, was Burr being serious- of _course_ he was. Alexander scowled.

“I don’t know what you think about me,” he said, careful to keep his voice measured so he didn’t give into the building anger, “but I’m not such a _bastard_ that I would use a kid against her dad. Or make a kid feel like shit just because her father’s being a shit.” He let out a breath through his teeth. “Or make a kid feel like shit, in general. _Ever_.”

“Mm,” Burr said. He wasn’t looking at Alexander; instead, he was staring at his hands as if he found them particularly fascinating. “Thanks, nonetheless.”

Alexander let out a breath, blowing a strand of hair away from his face. “I was just saying that you don’t have to—”

“Hamilton,” Burr said, his voice suddenly whip-sharp. Alexander clicked his mouth shut, but instead of glaring at him, Burr’s lips curved upwards at the corners. Nearly sincere, if Alexander squinted and pretended a little.

“Just say ‘you’re welcome’. That’s how you’re supposed to react when people thank you.”

Oh, for… Alexander grabbed another cookie, biting into it viciously while staring deep into Burr’s eyes. “ _You’re welcome_ ,” he said with his mouth full.

Burr stared at him. That almost sincere smile turned a little less almost. Then he shook his head, and it disappeared. 

“What did you come here to talk about?”

Right. Alexander pushed down that weird disappointment he felt at Burr’s blank expression. He put down the half-eaten cookie, heading for his backpack and grabbing his notebook. He dug out his phone from his pocket too.

“Mulligan finally consolidated the reports of the detectives who headed out to Las Vegas, Macau, St. Jose, Reno, and Monte Carlo,” he said. “He asked me to come in earlier – not even Monroe had gotten his hands on this yet.”

“That’s not exactly legal, you know,” Burr said mildly.

Alexander waved his concerns away. “Anyway, what they’ve found is that Levi hasn’t been visiting any of the casinos,” he said. After a moment, he paused, and then shrugged. “In fact, there are no records of him going to any of the casinos at all.”

Leaning back against his chair, Burr stretched out his legs. “That’s not a good thing,” he said. “That’s going to make the case look even worse.”

“We can schedule another interview with him to ask him,” Alexander said immediately.

Burr cocked his head to the side. “What makes you think that he’ll tell the truth?”

“Because he’s not guilty,” Alexander replied immediately. “He’s a good man who didn’t kill the man he loved on purpose. And he’d want to help as much as possible to ensure that the world believe him when he says that.”

He believed every single word he was saying. He _did_. The knowledge of Levi’s innocence was like a rock in his mind – solid and entirely unshakeable.

“Okay,” Burr said, in the tone Alexander hated. The tone that said that he was just saying this to appease him.

Taking a deep breath, Alexander unclenched his hand around his notebook. There was some kind of uneasy truce going between them now, made out of fragile glass, and he would be damned if he was the one to break it. 

They had a job to do. Alexander would do his job.

“I found out something else too,” Burr said.

Alexander leaned in eagerly. “Oh?” 

“Weeks isn’t well-known in the BDSM circles in New York,” Burr murmured. “In fact, no one actually knew that he was involved in the scene _at all_.”

“Wait,” Alexander’s breath hitched. “ _What_?”

A man as wealthy as Levi, who had the kind of expertise to make equipment for electricity play all by himself… and not at all known in New York? In the city where tongues never slept, and nothing ever remained a secret? That was…

“Or as far as I have looked anyway,” Burr continued.

Shaking his head, Alexander toyed with the end of his ponytail. He narrowed his eyes on the other man. “Who is your source for this?”

Burr’s lips curled up into a smile. It was one of his insincere ones; the one that was not smug but insinuating, which was even worse.

“Wilmot,” he said.

Oh. An image flashed across the back of Alexander’s eyelids: Wilmot leaning on the marble counter of his own bar, his smiling lips wrapped around the rim of Burr’s martini glass. Their eyes fixed upon each other.

He let out a breath.

“How far can he be trusted?”

“Further than I can throw him,” Burr said. He folded his hands on his lap. “He has no reason to lie.”

“Why would he want to help?”

Burr shrugged, “He wants something from me.”

Before Alexander could ask what it was, Burr stood up, pushing his chair back against his desk. He glanced at the clock, and Alexander followed his gaze: it was nearly nine-thirty.

“Theo will be going to bed soon,” Burr said, “and she’ll want her bedtime story.”

There it was again, that strange twist in Alexander’s chest. He closed his eyes and nodded, pushing himself away from the wall he had been leaning on. He picked up his backpack and tucked his notebook under his arm.

“I’ll think up of some possible arguments Jefferson might make with regards to the information we have and e-mail them to you,” he said. “You can look at it over in the morning and we can discuss counter-arguments?”

Those dark, undecipherable eyes looked at him for a moment before Burr shook his head. “Give me time,” he said. “Leave Jefferson’s arguments to me. I’ll get them to your email next week, maximum.”

Wait, what? Alexander blinked. He opened his mouth, and then he closed it. “Don’t tell me you have a source in the DA’s office who can actually hack into Jefferson’s computer,” he said, only half-joking. At this point, he could actually believe that.

Shaking his head, Burr gave him that insinuating smile again. “Not his computer,” he said. Then, before Alexander could actually ask him to clarify – because he was sick and tired of Burr talking in circles – there was a hand between his shoulders and Burr was ushering him out of the suddenly-open study door.

He kept his mouth shut until they passed the living room. He put on a smile as he shook Sarah’s hand again, and ruffled Theo’s hair. He waited until they were at the doorway of Burr’s house.

But, somehow, Burr beat him to it: “How did you find my address?”

“It was in the office’s database,” Alexander said, shrugging. Then he narrowed his eyes. “How did the database not list that you’re living with your daughter and sister?” Or even that Burr was married and widowed, for the matter?

They had known each other for years; since college, actually. But they were never close – not since Burr rebuffed his first overtures towards friendship, preferring the company of some guy named Petersen or Patersen or something like that – and though they were hired by the same company after graduation, they were under different partners. 

Still, it didn’t make any sense for Alexander to not even have heard about Burr having been married or becoming a father. 

How closely did the man keep his cards to his damned chest? And _why_?

“I prefer to keep my personal life separated from my professional one,” Burr was saying. His lips stretched out to that insincere smile again. “Goodnight, Hamilton.”

Then he stepped back, and Alexander was left staring at polished wood. He blinked, and rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to beat his head against the door.

Goddammit, Burr seemed to know _everything_ about him. And Alexander didn’t even know the basics. Not even his goddamned sources. All Alexander was sure of was that Burr had connections all over New York City who told him things that not even Mulligan could find out.

He took a deep breath. Let his head hit the door just once. Then he turned around, walked down the steps, and headed for the train station.

Well, Alexander had his own sources too. Beyond Laurens and Mulligan. He would show Burr; he would dig up as much as he could about the man and shove it into his face.

Then maybe Burr would stop giving him that fucking insinuating _smile_.

***

_March 8, Tuesday_

Sally checked herself in the mirror one last time: printed t-shirt, Columbia hoodie, jeans, and leather boots. She eyed the last critically – was that far too much? Or was just having that too little? She stared at herself again, and then grabbed a hair tie from behind the bathroom mirror and pulled her hair back. Then she took the lip gloss and reapplied it as well. Just foundation, blush, eyeliner, and that was enough, right? She forced herself to not fidget with her hair tie.

There was a knock on her door. She checked the time: exactly eleven. As always, Angelica was right on time. She took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom. She checked that the envelope full of money was still tucked away deep in her nightstand drawer. Then she opened the door.

“Welcome—” she started, and there was a mouth on hers. Hands on her shoulders, pushing her away from the doorway. Sound of a _thud_ as the door slammed back closed. Sally opened her mouth, a laugh halfway escaping out of her before it turned into a gasp when Angelica slid her tongue between her teeth.

Angelica’s fingers sunk into her hair. The tie dropped onto the floor, forgotten. Sally laughed again, her hands wrapping around Angelica’s thin waist, then sliding back upwards. Small breasts pressed against her fuller ones as Angelica pushed her down on the bed and climbed on top of her, their mouths still locked, and Sally kissed back as she counted the knobs of Angelica’s spine.

Her head was starting to spin when Angelica pulled back, panting. Sally licked her lips: she could feel the lip gloss she’d so carefully put on smeared all over her mouth, and she hit Angelica on the shoulder.

“You just ruined all of the efforts I made to look good for you,” she said.

“Have I?” Angelica asked, grinning. She was gorgeous as always, dark skin practically glowing in the ugly fluorescent lights of Sally’s dorm room, her hair like silk waterfall spilling down around them.

“Because you look beautiful,” she continued. Her hand cupped Sally’s cheek. “Just look at you. Christ, look at you.”

Sally turned her head, nuzzling against those soft fingertips that were entirely devoid of any calluses whatsoever. “You’ve been looking at me plenty for the past eighteen months,” she murmured, halfway to teasing. Her cheeks were flushing hot beneath Angelica’s hand.

“That’s Skype,” Angelica said. She sounded almost breathless as she shifted on top of Sally, straddling her thighs and sinking down until her elbows were on the mattress on the either side of Sally’s head. 

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Yeah?” Sally asked. She tried to raise her eyebrows, but ended up giggling when Angelica leaned in, burying her nose into Sally’s curls and taking a breath that tickled her scalp.

“Couldn’t do this through Skype,” Angelica said, her voice slightly muffled. “I was almost fucking tempted to buy a bottle of your usual shampoo so I could snort it like some kind of drug addict.”

Pushing away the urge to roll her eyes – Angelica _really_ knew nothing about drug addicts if she thought that was an apt comparison – Sally turned her head, burying her face into the older woman’s neck.

“You smell good too,” she said. She tapped her fingers on a skinny upper arm, and gave Angelica crooked grin when she looked up at her.

“Welcome home, hey.”

“Wanted to come over yesterday,” Angelica murmured. “But, you know.”

“Mm,” Sally nodded. “You wanted to see Eliza and Peggy first. Sisters before girls. I get it.” She deliberately didn’t think about Angelica at work; didn’t allow herself think about that. Down that road lay demons.

Angelica lifted her head. She curled her fingers around a strand of Sally’s hair, bringing it to her lips. “My best girl,” she purred. Leaning in close, she brushed her lips against Sally’s hairline, then down to the curve of her ear.

Sally shivered. She swallowed, and tried to steady her voice as she asked, “How was London?”

“Fuck London,” Angelica said. She brushed the back of her fingers over Sally’s cheek again, then down. The tips danced over Sally’s collarbones, one after the other, before she closed them around her throat. Just a loose hold; a comforting weight.

Eyelids fluttering, Sally arched under the touch, a gasp escaping her. “Angelica,” she gasped. “Angelica, please.”

Another kiss on her hairline. Hot breath against her ear. “Give me a colour, Sally,” Angelica urged. “Give me a colour.”

A colour. God. The year-old knot in Sally’s chest seemed to loosen all of a sudden; she gulped down air as if her lungs had been deprived for this whole time. She shifted under Angelica’s grasp, careful to not dislodge the hand on her neck, before she looked at the older woman from beneath heavy lids.

“Don’t you want to catch up?” She wriggled slightly under Angelica, brushing her thigh against the other woman’s. “Don’t you want me to tell you all the ways I’ve been good?”

Angelica’s mouth pressed against hers again, tongue darting in. This time, the kiss was less exploration than a marking of territory, Angelica claiming her mouth all over again while her free hand spread over Sally’s stomach, rucking up the hoodie and the shirt to scrape her nails lightly, so lightly, over her stomach.

“My best girl,” Angelica breathed. When she pulled away, her eyes were wide and dark, pupils blown entirely. “Are you still going to tease me after we’ve been apart for so long?”

“But,” Sally bit her lip, worrying it and deliberately making it even plusher and redder than it already was. “But you always tell me that patience is a virtue, Angelica. Are you going back on your word?”

Blinking, Angelica stilled. Her hand slipped out from under Sally’s clothes. Sally wriggled again for good measure, biting back a giggle.

The knot in her chest was loosening even further.

“Clever,” Angelica said finally. “Clever, clever girl.” Her thumb brushed over Sally’s bottom lip. “My clever girl.”

Warmth burst in Sally’s spine from the praise. She arched her back up, squeezing her eyes shut as her throat pressed against the heel of Angelica’s hand. “Green,” she gasped out. “Green, ma’am. _Please._ ”

“Oh, thank God,” Angelica said. Her hand left Sally’s neck.

Before Sally could whine, before she could flail blindly to have the hand back, Angelica’s teeth was there. Right over her throat. She bit down on the skin, terribly careful – just enough force to send a shot of pleasure at the claim, and yet not enough to break the blood vessels. 

“Mine,” Angelica breathed. Her hands grabbed the hem of Sally’s hoodie and t-shirt, pulling both off of her. Sally helped as much as she could, trying to bite back her noises – dorm walls were _thin_ – as Angelica’s nails clawed down her chest. Two fingers hooked under the bridge of her bra, drawing the wire back before she let go.

It _snapped_ over Sally’s skin, the soft, well-worn cloth rubbing over her nipples. Sally’s breath hitched. She forced her eyes open. Her hand trembled as she reached up, sinking her fingers into Angelica’s silky hair. Angelica obliged her, leaning down and pressing their mouths together.

“Yours,” Sally agreed. She closed her eyes and forced herself to think about nothing, absolutely nothing, but Angelica’s touch, her scent, her breath on her touch, her ribs moving under her fingers. “Yours.”  
__  
Angelica was home. Angelica would fix everything.  
  
Sally was too old to believe in fairy tales. She didn’t want to believe anyway. But, like this… Her heels dug into the mattress as Angelica skimmed her fingertips over her thin, over-washed panties. Her breath came out as a sob, and her hands clung onto Angelica’s shoulders.

“Good girl. My good girl. Mine.”

It was so easy to believe. It was so _easy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angelica and Jefferson really were very good friends in history: Angelica even gave him the copy of the Federalist Papers that Eliza sent to her from America. Jefferson was infatuated with her for a period, but after that petered off, his letters to her were still very affectionate, and vice versa. Even during Hamilton’s feud with Jefferson. People and their relationships with each other are all complicated.
> 
> Angelica's homecoming can be summed up using [this gif](http://i.imgur.com/k8piyFt.gif). If you imagine the pizza guy throwing his pizzas into the fire and adding onto the screaming, that's pretty much Angelica in Book II. She’s the unluckier one of the two unfortunates who get caught right in the middle of the five-car pile-up. (The other unfortunate will only enter in Book III.)
> 
> And fun idea for a drinking game with this fic: whenever someone lies, whether to themselves or someone else, take a shot. If you’re not drunk by the end of Book I, you would have been at the end of this chapter.


	8. the one thing in life I can control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unwanted revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Second scene: attempted rape, homophobia (both internalised and externalised), externalised cis-heteronormativity/transphobia, self-destructive tendencies, and disassociation. (It’s Jefferson’s POV; remember what I said about being armed with shovels to dig himself deeper? Yeah.)

_March 10, Thursday_

The door opened and she walked in, her high heels thudding dully on the carpeted floors of the office. A hand swept behind her, flaring out her jacket. She dropped into the chair, facing him with her legs crossed and eyes boring holes onto his face.

Aaron gave it two seconds before he turned his attention fully away from his laptop. “Ms Weeks,” he greeted.

“Mr Burr,” Ezrine Weeks returned, leaning further into the plush swivel chair. The plastic creaked softly. “There is something I’m curious about, if you have the time to answer a few questions.”

Without even waiting for him to ask. Aaron looked at her, taking in her easy poise and the tension wound in her thin shoulders. He folded his hands in front of him, leaning forward and pasting a smile on his face. He didn’t allow any of the surprise he felt at her appearance to show; she might not have made an appointment, but he had a reputation to keep.

“I have a few minutes to spare, yes,” he murmured. “What is it that you need?”

She didn’t answer immediately like he expected her to. Instead, she cocked her head to the side, her dark, sharp gaze a physical weight upon him. Aaron made sure to continue breathing regularly.

Every client needed a different touch, but the end goal was always the same: to inspire confidence. It wasn’t just enough to be able to do his job, but also to ensure that his clients believed that he could do it well.

That was a lesson Hamilton still hadn’t learned.

“You have interviewed my brother twice by now,” she began. The second time being, of course, earlier this week when he accompanied Hamilton to visit Weeks again to question him about his activities overseas. They received nothing but a few thunderstorms’ worth of tears. It had been a worthless trip.

“So I have,” Aaron prompted when she didn’t continue.

Nodding, she raised her hands from her sides, dropping them on top of her knee. “There are a few things that I have noticed,” she said. “Not just during those interviews or even with my brother. But also during our first meeting, and the second one where you and Mr Hamilton came to discuss strategies with me.”

Aaron stifled the urge to narrow his eyes. “What is it?” he asked instead.

Her eyes bore into his for another moment. “You don’t have much passion for this case, do you?” she asked finally.

Now Aaron had to push down the instinctive widening of his smile. There had been many who had posed this particular concern to him before; reassuring them was so automatic by now that he had to fix his eyes on Ezrine’s shoulder for a moment to remind himself.

“Passion is a detriment to the field of law, Ms Weeks,” he said, keeping his voice soft but not overtly gentle. “The law does not care about emotion, only about logic. In order to see the best line of logic that will convince judge and jury both, I must keep myself dispassionate.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you truly believe that?”

“It is a flawed philosophy to speak what you do not believe,” Aaron replied easily.

“Yet there are many who do such a thing, for their own selfish reasons,” Ezrine returned immediately, her own voice calm and even. “Yet the jury is still human, and therefore simpler to convince through passion instead of logic.”

Shaking his head, Aaron leaned back against his chair. “Placing one’s bets on emotional arguments is the same as taking a step forward in the midst of a swamp,” he said. “The ground is unsteady, and might swallow you whole.”

“Without taking that step, one will not find one’s way out of the swamp.”

“Is not the better solution to not find oneself in a swamp in the first place?” he swept out an arm. “To pave one’s path so that it heads towards a straighter and more solid road, one which many can and will be eager to follow?”

“Can a person be trusted to build such a path when he has shown no real desire for the destination itself?” Ezrine countered, shifting the metaphor again.

Aaron looked at her for a moment before he let out a chuckle. She laughed with him as well, the sound of their voices half-echoing in the room, bouncing off the walls and windows.

Then she sobered abruptly. Her gaze sharpened again, and she cocked her head towards him. “You still haven’t answered my question, Mr Burr,” she said. 

Blinking, Aaron mirrored the motion. “Have I not?”

“No,” Ezrine said. Her lips curled upwards into a smile that hid knives at the edges. “You might be charming, Mr Burr, but it will take more than just a few smiles and clever words to deafen me against the complete dearth of ‘I’ in your statements.”

She leaned forward. Her smile widened, baring blindingly white teeth. “So let me ask once more: do you have no passion whatsoever for my brother’s case?”

Stilling completely, Aaron stopped himself from clenching his hands together until his knuckles turned white. Instead, he simply looked at her for a long moment. 

“General statements are all well and good,” Ezrine Weeks continued, breaking the silence without a single hint of discomfort at it on her face. “But I did not take a trip down here simply to talk about philosophy, Mr Burr. In case you have not noticed…”

Her hands dropped onto the desk, fingers half-curling around the edge. “This is about my brother’s _life_.”

“So it is,” Aaron murmured. “I do not deny that. Neither have I treated the case with anything but the greatest seriousness.”

“The question is, then,” Ezrine said. Her smile had changed to one with closed lips, and yet that simply made her look even more dangerous. “What do _you_ define as ‘greatest seriousness’?”

Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever considered law as a career, Ms Weeks?” he asked, careful to keep his voice light and to insert some genuine interest in the question.

“Answering a question with a question is bad courtroom etiquette,” she told him. “As I’m sure you know.”

“So I do,” he said. “But there is little I can counter with, given that I have already answered your question.”

“A philosophy is not a reason, Mr Burr. I’m not as easily fooled as the rest of your clients.”

“Please do not disparage my other clients. They have nothing to do with the current situation.”

“What do you conceive of to be the ‘current situation’?” The quotation marks were obvious even in her tone. Aaron pushed down the sudden eyebrow twitch.

“That you have hired me to defend your brother at his trial,” he said. “You bought my time and services, Ms Weeks. Not my passion. Nor my obligation to force myself into a philosophy I do not ascribe to in order to please you.”

His tone was still even and calm, but he knew his words were knife-sharp. They hit the target as well: Ezrine reared backwards, eyes widening as her shoulders hit the back of the chair.

“If you require any reassurances,” Aaron continued, “I can offer you the records of my previous cases. I have won many of them; I have grasped justice even when it seemed impossible to do so. And I have done all of that without being embroiled in the passion that you believe necessary.”

She didn’t speak for a long time, eyes fixed upon his. Aaron refused to look away. This was no longer just about inspiring confidence in the client, but his own methods and philosophies when it came to his work.

“Perhaps,” she said finally, voice quiet and thoughtful. “I have considered your lack of passion strange as I have only met you with Mr Hamilton before this.”

Of course Hamilton had something to do with this. Aaron slipped his hands underneath the desk, clenching them and digging blunt nails between thin bones. He kept his smile on.

“Hamilton is a man of great fire,” he murmured. A fire that burned both fierce and long. He pushed away all that Hamilton had revealed to him along with the strange twinging in his chest – neither was relevant at the moment.

Ezrine waved a hand. “His fire is not primarily what I’m concerned with,” she said. “Only that…” Looking down at her hands, she shook her head.

“I have looked through the files of every single lawyer under Washington,” she continued. “When he told me that he is neither available nor willing to take on my brother’s case in full, I asked him for the files. I looked through all of them. Not only the records of wins and losses, but also your general demeanours and philosophies.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his. She smiled thinly. “All that you have said to me so far is what I already know.”

Aaron inclined his head. He did not apologise.

“When I chose you, I did so because I believe in what you believe,” she said. “Logic convinces people far better than emotion. Yet now that I have met Mr Hamilton and seen the intensity with which he believes in Levi’s innocence, I understand why Washington asked me to hire him along with you.”

What? Aaron’s lips parted. He swallowed hard, calming down the sudden surging tides inside his mind. He gripped tight on his knee.

“My apologies,” he said, the words coming to him automatically. “But do you mind repeating the last thing you said?”

She blinked, then shrugged. “I meant to hire only you,” she said, clarifying instead of repeating. “But Washington convinced me that Mr Hamilton will be a valuable investment.”

Breath catching in his throat, Aaron stared at her. This case… _this case_ that was now called one of the most high-profile ones in recent years… was supposed to be his and his _alone_. He should not be working with Hamilton. Hamilton shouldn’t even be involved. He only was because _Washington_ had wanted it.

Aaron had known for a very long time that Washington’s favourite was Hamilton. Rarely had that mattered to him. Yet now… 

Now. He pasted a smile on his face. “Hamilton has the habit of speaking out all of his beliefs with great earnestness and passion,” he said. “A trait that I, unfortunately, do not own.”

“Which comes back to our current conversation,” Ezrine said. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on his desk. “Tell me, Mr Burr, do you believe in my brother’s innocence?”

“A lawyer’s beliefs do not impact his arguments,” Aaron said automatically.

“Perhaps they do not in your case,” she said, lifting a hand to inspect her nails. Her eyes were terribly bright and sharp behind them. “But you have to admit that to be rather difficult to believe. Especially when you refuse to commit to something so simple and obvious.”

Ah, but was it truly that obvious? Aaron had met Levi Weeks twice, and though the man had put on pretty good shows that might convince someone of his innocence both times, he had known far too many people who seemed innocent at first glance but who were anything but. Not to mention plenty more who believed in their own innocence even when they were guilty.

He folded his hands back on his lap. “What is it that you mean to say, Ms Weeks?” he asked.

She gave him that thin-lipped smile again. Standing up, the wheels of the chair scraping over the carpet, she slapped her hand on his desk, pushing herself forward into his personal bubble with her eyes narrowed and fixed on him.

“There are only eighteen days to the trial,” she said softly. “But there is no time limit to changing an attorney, Mr Burr. There are no limitations whatsoever.”

Aaron’s breath tripped once more in his throat. He struggled to keep his eyes blank, to not allow the rage rising within him to slip out.

“Do keep that in mind,” she finished.

Nodding, he stood as well. Ensuring that he was still smiling, he offered his hand. “I will,” he assured her. “It was a good meeting, Ms Weeks.”

Then the edges of his smile sharpened. He did not take his eyes away from her as he said, “However, do try to remember to book an appointment next time. I would not wish to waste your time if you came while I was out of the office.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “I doubt that is your only reason,” she said. Then she inclined her head towards him.

“I can see myself out.”

Aaron didn’t step out from behind his desk. He didn’t follow her, or try to open the office door for her. He only watched until she disappeared from his line of sight before he closed the door himself.

Hamilton. Aaron sank back into his chair, spinning it around so he could stare out of the window, towards the high-rise buildings that dotted the streets. His hand twitched; he clenched it, but without the solidity of wood or leather beneath his fingers, the movement was entirely useless.

Did the man know? —That was a foolish question: of course he did. Most likely on the day they had received the case itself; when Washington had sent Aaron out of the room to speak to Hamilton. Hamilton was, after all, always privy to Washington’s secrets. Perhaps even in the same way that Aaron was privy to Hamilton’s. He allowed himself a cruel smile.

Had Washington known this would happen? Was this why he had kept the information from Aaron?

None of it mattered, he told himself. _None_ of it. Aaron wasn’t going to let this affect him. He would do his work; he would win this case, and outshine Hamilton. If Aaron managed to render Washington’s golden boy obsolete, then…

Then Aaron would have grounds aplenty to sue him for unfair work practices if he passed over Aaron to offer him a partnership. He had plenty of incriminating evidence already, found and compiled when Montgomery had died. He would be able to win that case.

Pushing himself away from his desk, Aaron walked towards the window. He looked down, watching as Ezrine Weeks’s car exited from the firm’s garage, heading downtown. Likely back towards her workplace, or back home, to her brother.

Perhaps an argument could be made that her desperation was simply a sign of her love for her brother. Aaron knew that Hamilton would choose that; knew the precise words and lines of logic he would use to argue that. But the most likely option was…

Ezrine Weeks knew that her brother was guilty.

Aaron turned up the air-conditioning in his office. It wasn’t too warm, no, but desperation left a certain reek.

***

 _March 11, Friday_  
  
The club was small and cramped, with a bar that started from the entrance and went all the way to the back, stopping only right before the toilets. Stools lined the dull and stained wood counter; the seats were made of peeling faux leather with their insides spilling out like pieces of fluff, or torn flesh. The air was thick with the stench of vomit and piss and sweat.

On the thin space of the dance floor: men pressing against each other; hands on hips, hands on faces; tongues in each other’s mouths, hips pressing together; the sound of loud, raucous laughter, the thrum of low moans and gasps from the toilets, practically in tandem to the beat of pounding, incoherent music.

Thomas was in the Bronx. He’d spent many days and many incognito Chrome windows to find this place. He still didn’t know what he was doing here.

Two men managed to peel themselves away from the dance floor. One white, one black, the colour of their skins contrasting sharply in the flickering piss-yellow light of the club. They were joined together by the mouths, murmuring words that were ripped apart and muffled by the loud smacks of their kissing. Thomas sipped his whiskey, feeling it burn on his tongue. They began to grind against each other, laughing. He tried to move away, but he couldn’t; so he forced himself to tear his gaze away from them instead.

Mistake.

There was a man standing in front of him. White with close-cropped hair, and a tattoo of something indiscernible crawling down from the sleeve of his tight t-shirt down to his wrist. Thomas stared at him. The man was, he supposed, somewhat attractive: pale blue eyes, high cheekbones, broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and long legs. His muscles nearly bulged out from his clothes as he pressed Thomas against the bar.

He leaned in. His breath stank of alcohol and something sour. “Seen something you like?”

“No,” Thomas said honestly. 

The man threw his head back and laughed. His partner – or whoever he was – came up beside him. Both pairs of eyes scanned Thomas from head to toe, taking in the button-down shirt and tight jeans and the boots – the clothes he’d bought just for this place.

“We’re not good enough for the rich man,” the white man drawled. His voice should be drowned out by the music, but it wasn’t, somehow. 

As Thomas stared, he hooked his fingers beneath his shirt, unbuttoning it until it was showing at least half of his chest. Thomas waited, searching inside himself for some kind of reaction, something that would draw him to this man. Something that would make him want to drag him, or the one beside him, into the toilets.

But there was nothing.

A body pressing against his right side. A murmur: “We know your kind,” the voice drawled, thick and heavy with something Thomas couldn’t really identify. “You come here, you watch us, and then you go home and jerk off in the shower.”

“You don’t have to do that,” said a different voice. When had another body appeared on the other side of him? “If you want to touch, you can, rich man. Just name your price, and we’ll see if we like the numbers, yeah?”

Oh. Thomas’s voice caught in his throat. That was… Maybe if he did it just once, maybe if he tried it just once, then he could… Perhaps he could…

His thoughts screeched to a halt. There was a hand tugging his shirt out of his jeans, sneaking under the cloth to scrape blunt nails over his stomach. He blinked. Instinctively, immediately, he threw his half-full glass of whiskey into the face of the man on his right. He didn’t know which one he was; everything was starting to grey at the corner of his eyes.

The sound of a yell. Thomas watched, half-amused and definitely fascinated, as his hand snatched a glass of some indeterminate alcohol out of someone’s hand, and threw it into the face of the man on his left.

More yelling. Voices pressing into his ears. “You fucking bastard,” one of them said. Hands grabbing his shoulders, pulling him forward. More voices, more yelling, all of it pressing into his ears, crushing his thoughts, turning them into sand-like glass that slipped through his hands. His feet were moving.

No more voices. The music disappeared along with a muted slam. Silence. Water dripping down his face. Was he outside? It had been drizzling when he first stepped into the bar. He didn’t know.

The hands came back to his shoulders. Where were they before? He didn’t know that either. He struggled, trying to see, but there was only darkness with a slash of pale skin. A foot slammed into the back of his legs. Thomas stumbled. His knees met the ground. It was filthy and wet. Liquid soaked through denim, smearing across his skin. He tried to open his eyes, but then his head jerked to the side. The smack of skin upon skin. Pain burst on his cheek.

His breath hitched.

A hand on his hair, grabbing onto the strands. Thomas’s head was jerked upwards, and he stared into pale blue eyes. Dark lashes beading with water.

“Maybe this will help you change your mind, sweetheart,” a voice said. It came from just beside his ear, which didn’t make sense because the blue eyes were in front of him, a distance away. No, he couldn’t see them anymore: there were only hands. One on his jaw, nails digging into his skin; another one directly in front of his sightline, rough-knuckled hand fumbling with a buckle. The rasp of a zipper.  
_  
Oh_.

Thomas jerked his head away from the hand. He tried to stand up, but there was a foot on his calves. Voices, bodies around him. The sound of laughter. A hand in his hair, tugging away the scarf he was using to hide his most distinctive trait. His vision half-blocked by his own curls falling into his face. Not that he could see much anyway, with the grey encroaching even further and further into his eyes.

“Christ, he’s a pretty one,” a voice said. A nail bit further into his skin, the tip pressing against the bone. “Just look at him.”

Sour. Not just sweat, but something else. Thomas gagged, choking on his own spit, trying to bend over, but the hand in his hair was holding him up, holding his head still. The sour smell came even closer. His mouth was forced open. 

Fingers shoving into his mouth. His jaw worked without his mind’s permission, teeth clamping down. Curses echoing around him, distorted. The smell of rotting food. The sound of a smack again. Pain on the same cheek. Pain on his neck from the way his head jerked to the side. Thomas tried to breathe evenly, but his lungs seized at the last moment. Air stuttered out of his throat. A sick heat began to coil around his stomach.

He stopped fighting, stopped struggling. He closed his eyes, shoulders drooping in the grasp of the men’s arms holding him up.

“Look at the bitch,” he heard a voice said. He couldn’t recognise who it was anymore. “He wants it so bad.”

Maybe it had to be this way. Maybe this was the exorcism he had been looking for. Maybe this was exactly what he needed in order to stop his eyes from lingering on Madison’s face. Maybe this was precisely what was necessary to stop dreaming of his best friend’s hands slipping underneath his clothes, his best friend’s chest against his back, his best friend murmuring words he would never say in his ear. 

This wasn’t what he’d planned for tonight. But then again, the purpose had not changed. He could learn to adapt, couldn’t he? 

The hand left his jaw. He didn’t close his mouth. 

Laughter. Shame twisted inside him along with sour stench, closer now than ever. One was needed to get rid of the other, he told himself. 

“Hey!” another voice. Deeper than the other two men’s, loud and echoing around… Was this the alleyway behind the bar? “Hey, you bastards! What the hell are you doing?”

“C’mon now, Cathy,” one of the voices replied. “Just look at him. He’s obviously asking for it.”

“Fuck off, Levin,” that strange voice said again. Cathy? That was her name? “You too, Wes. Get the fuck out of here before I make you guys do it.”

“Don’t be such a fucking spoilsport,” one of the two men standing surrounding him said. (There were two of them. She said two names.) “You can join in too. Put that cock of yours into some kind of use, huh?”

Wait, what? Thomas blinked. He tried to shake his head. One of the men slapped him again, this time across the mouth. His lip slid across his teeth. Pain again.

Then the hands around him disappeared. Clicking heels, the sound of a scuffle. Thomas tried to breathe through his teeth, but blood slipped down his throat, shoved into his lungs. He gagged again, choking, curling forward as his hands slapped onto the dirty ground as his lungs tried to crawl out of his throat.

Rapid footsteps. A pair of gleaming leather boots right next to his head. No hands on this time. It was almost disappointing.

By the time his coughing stopped, the shaking had started. Thomas stared at his hands – they were wet, and there were black flakes dotting his palms. He didn’t know what they were. He was almost tempted to lick his own skin. If he couldn’t have…

“Hey,” the strange voice said again. “Can I touch you?”

What? Thomas turned his head, squinting hard. But he couldn’t see anything except for a dark, looming shadow. He nodded anyway – what was the worst that could happen at this point?

Hands on his shoulders. Except, this time, they were gentle. They helped him to his feet, and he half-collapsed against a broad shoulder when those hands slipped down to his waist, urging and bracketing. 

“Just follow my footsteps, okay? Walk as I walk.”

Thomas nodded again. He walked. There was the sound of an opening door, and the music and sound of laughter came back. But it was all muted. He wasn’t sure whether it was because of the fog in his mind or walls. Another door being opened, and then slammed closed. His feet made odd, slapping sounds on the ground.

“C’mon, here.” That voice again. Thomas was eased onto his knees. Hands took hold of his, lifting them and putting them on top of something cold and familiar. Ceramic. Toilet bowl. 

He lurched forward, practically shoving his head inside as he threw up. There was mostly just bile, because he hadn’t eaten much today. He tried to breathe. His senses kicked in just at that moment: piss and shit and vomit, and he gagged again. His split lip burned from the acid. 

Footsteps. Fingers on his face. He jerked again, smacking his head against the wall. “Okay, okay,” that voice said. Shadow at the corner of his eyes retreating, staying a distance away. Thomas tried to focus. Gave up.

An image returned to him: his own hands, black-speckled. He lifted them to his face. They smelled terrible. He cocked his head, parted his lips, and tried to shove fingers in between.

“What the _fuck_ ,” that voice said. Something loud clacking against tiles. Hands on his wrists, pulling his hands away. Being dragged up back to his feet. Cold water on his hands. Sound of more running.

“Sorry, but I think I need to do this.”

Before Thomas could even register the apology, much less wonder what it was for, he was being shoved forward. His head smacked against the tap. A hand in his hair, guiding him underneath. Water on his face. Water all around him. It was cold. It was a knife that sliced through the fog in his head.

Rearing back, Thomas shoved an elbow into the shadow he could still see. He gasped, trying to breathe. He fell forward, barely managing to grab onto the edges of the sink as he started coughing again, trying to get water out of his lungs.

Oh. So he still had some kind of self-preservation instinct. That was a surprise.

The shadow stayed where it was. Thomas scrubbed his hands in the sink, then pulled out the plug. He watched as dirt slipped down the drain, and scrubbed harder at his hands. The shadow left. He scraped his nails over the webbing between his fingers, over and over. 

“Enough,” the shadow said. “ _Enough_. Jesus Christ.”

Hands on his shoulder, shoving him backwards. Thomas went, shaking his head, splattering water everywhere. He still couldn’t see properly. Something cold and solid shoved into his hands, and then tilted upwards. A glass. He tipped his head back and drained the entire thing. Oh, it was water. The shadow took away the glass, and nudged his shoulder.

Thomas sat down. After a moment, he realised he was sitting on top of a toilet seat. He bent his head, pressed it between his knees, and counted numbers in French, then Spanish, then Latin. He added Ancient Greek just to complete the set.

When he lifted his head, he saw yellowing tiles on the walls streaked with aged blue, a row of sinks, and almost clean floor tiles beneath his feet. The men’s toilets. He squeezed his eyes shut, and rubbed his eyes across them. Then he lifted his head.

Broad shoulders, narrow hips, thick biceps made thicker by the folded arms. Skin several shades darker than his own. Heavy eyelashes; plush, dark red lips. Long hair pulled into thin, intricate braids. A short dress that stopped at mid-thigh; stockings and half-familiar leather boots.

His lips parted. Nothing escaped him. He was reduced to this: gaping.

“It’s not polite to stare,” the shadow said. Fingers brushed away a thin braid that had fallen over a shoulder.

“Uh,” Thomas said. He swallowed, and stared at his hands. There was still dirt stuck underneath. The alleyway. Those men. He took a deep breath, and looked into dark eyes. The lashes did not match the face. He fought down a shudder.

“My name is Catherine,” the shadow said. “Don’t call me Cathy.”

“Okay,” he said dumbly. Another breath. He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Uh.”

Those strange eyes stared at him. A shake of the head. The shadow said, “I expected better from you, you know.”

“What?” Thomas blinked.

Painted lips stretched into an obviously insincere smile. “Be careful what you say next,” Catherine said, voice dipper even lower, practically thrumming with danger. “I could’ve left you outside. I could’ve let Levin and Wes do what they wanted with you. But instead I got you away from them to _here._ The men’s toilets.” 

A pause. “Do you have any idea what that’s doing to me?”

Thomas continued staring. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I,” he started. He licked his lips. “I don’t know. I don’t—”

His hands were shaking. He stared at them. Nothing made sense.

The sound of clicking heels on tiles. Thomas shrunk away from the hand that reached out towards him. The nails, he noticed, were painted violet. The colour was beautiful.

“Do you,” he licked his lips again, forcing himself to look into those dark eyes. “How would you like me to thank you? I can…” he squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again.

“I can get on my knees for you, if you like.”

Now it was Catherine’s turn to stare at him. Then a heavy huff escaped, blowing away a loose braid of hair. Footsteps. Now he had to look up to meet those eyes.

“Christ,” a soft murmur. “What the hell happened to you, Mr Jefferson?”

Thomas stilled entirely, down to the very air in his lungs. His heart was pounding in his ears. Then there was a hard smack between his shoulderblades, and he lurched forward, gasping hard.

“How… how did you,” he nearly clawed at his own throat, stopping himself only at the last moment. “How did you know who I am?”

He wasn’t dressed like he usually was. He hid his hair. He did everything he could, didn’t he?

“You’re not very good at keeping yourself unrecognisable,” Catherine said, voice threaded through with clear mirth. “If you really wanted to do that, you should’ve shaved. But that’s not what you were going for, was it?”

“That’s,” Thomas began. Then he shook his head hard, pressing his knuckles hard against his eyes. Stars burst sharply behind his lids, but the pain didn’t help. It never really did. “I don’t know, I…”

Shoving away his confused, tangled thoughts, he focused on Catherine again. “Do you want me to?” he asked again. “Because I can.”

An exorcism. He needed an exorcism. It didn’t matter who he got it from. It didn’t matter the shape of the person he got it from.

“I’m not interested in you.” Narrowed eyes. Lips pressed flat. “Not only is my wife a thousand times better than you, I’m not interested in being your self-punishment.” 

Thomas was back to staring again. Gaping, too. He clicked his teeth shut, but it wasn’t enough: “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to stay a man?” he heard himself asking. “Then your relationship with your wife will be more natural.”

Catherine looked at him. A shake of the head, another huff of breath. “I really fucking expected so much better from you.”

“How the hell do you know enough of me to expect anything of me?” he threw back immediately, somehow finding a reserve of actual anger in him that wasn’t already directed towards himself.

“I’ve seen you before,” Catherine said. A shoulder pressed against the wall. Arms crossed across a broad chest, shifting the material of the dress. Thomas forced himself to not look away. “At Elric’s funeral.”

Elric. Elric Sands. Thomas couldn’t help himself: he burst out laughing, loud and sharp and hysterical. It all came back to the damned case, didn’t it? Everything came back to the case. He should have never taken it. Hell, he should just abandon all of his pride and shove it towards someone else. Let it be someone else’s problem so he could… he could let all that was new and strange and terrible lie where it had used to.

Angelica offered. Angelica…

“Look,” Catherine said, interrupting his thoughts. A sigh escaped from crimson lips. “I don’t expect anything in return from you. Consider this a repayment of a favour.”

“What favour?” Thomas blinked.

“Do you know how fucking long Elric’s family was chased by the damned reporters?” Catherine asked. “A really damned long time. And then you came and chased them away with a ‘fuck off’ that the media is _still_ muttering about, and they get some peace to grieve properly.”

A hand waved. The polish on the nails glittered underneath the dim fluorescent of the toilets. “So think of this as a repayment of a favour on the behalf of all of Elric’s friends. Especially if you manage to get that bastard Weeks what he deserves.”

“Bastard?” Thomas’s mind shifted into investigation mode. He knew this. This was familiar.

“Yeah,” Catherine snorted. “I’ve met the guy. He’s a damned creep. Every word he says gives me the shivers.”

“Why?”

Lips parting, Catherine gave him a long stare. Then a hand tucked a couple of braids behind the ears. Another click of heels, and then Thomas no longer needed to tilt his head up to look into those eyes.

“If you want an interview with me about Elric and Weeks,” Catherine said, slow and deliberate, “or if you want me to testify, then you’ve got to answer a couple of questions for me first.”

“That’s…” Thomas rubbed his hand over his face. He could guess what those questions were already. “I don’t have the answers.”

“You haven’t even heard me out yet.”

“I don’t have answers,” he repeated. “And you haven’t answered one of mine either.”

A pause. A twitch of the lips. “Okay. How about… I answer one of yours, in return for you answering one of mine. Deal?”

Thomas’s head was spinning. The conversation was going too fast for him to process fully. But, somehow, his tongue worked even quicker. “Sure,” his voice said.

“You first.” A flap of the hand, practically magnanimous.

“Okay,” Thomas said. He took a deep breath. “Why do you dress like a woman and call yourself by a woman’s name when you’re attracted to women? It makes more logical sense if you remain a man. Your life will be so much easier that way.”

“Because this is who I am,” Catherine answered easily.

“That’s not an answer,” Thomas protested.

“It is.” A shrug. “My turn: what the hell are you doing here?”

Thomas flattened his lips into a line. “An exorcism,” he said.

“Right,” Catherine said, voice dry. “Of course you’d do that. Fucking lawyer.”

Shrugging, Thomas crossed his arms, shifting back until he could lean against the toilet tank. It was comforting, almost, this rapid-fire questioning and answering that wasn’t about anything concrete. Like a debate exercise.

“What do you mean: this is who you are?”

A hand swept outwards, most likely indicating the outfit and the body both. “It means that I don’t want to scream or cry or cringe whenever I look at myself in the mirror,” Catherine said, voice absolutely calm. “That’s what it means.”

Thomas forced his next breath through his teeth. Catherine recognised him and knew who he was. He couldn’t afford to show even more weakness and vulnerability now; he had a reputation to keep. That mattered far more than the cold knife of those words sinking into his chest.

“What the hell are you trying to exorcise?” Catherine asked.

Staring up to the ceiling, Thomas said, “Something I don’t want to feel.” Then, before he could be interrupted, he continued, “Is being able to look yourself in the mirror worth the attacks you get from other people?”

This time, Catherine didn’t answer immediately. “Not all the time.” The words were soft, barely audible. Thomas waited. But when Catherine spoke again, it wasn’t a question.

“Thing is, I know what you’re saying. I can’t get a better job than this shitty place because of who and what I am. But it feels right to me, and that’s more important than anything else.”

Those dark eyes rose, meeting his. Lips quirked into a wry smile. “‘Laws must be made with the consent of those who are subject to them. Any law that enforces the tyranny of the powerful upon the powerless, any law that entraps the righteous individual and stops them from acting in accordance to their inner morality, cannot be allowed to stand. It is the right of the people to alter and abolish laws, and to institute new ones, in order to lay down the foundation of the principles of righteousness and selfhood, and organise laws such that they are most likely to lead to the path that allows for the safety, happiness, and moral growth of righteous individuals.’”

Familiar words. Of course they were familiar. Thomas had written and spoken them himself during his last case. The Declaration of Independence, as coined by the press. Though he’d never said anything about _independence_.

He closed his eyes. “That’s a different thing,” he said, sounding hollow and empty even to his own ears.

“Is it, really?” Catherine asked, hand splaying across broad chest. “I know that I’m righteous for dressing and acting the way I feel. I know that, because I’m not harming anyone. My rights do not infringe those of others. The laws and thoughts of those who discriminate against me are the tyranny of the powerful. _How_ is it different?”

Thomas buried his face into his hands. He laughed again, helpless and hysterical. “For someone who hates lawyers, you sure know how to talk like one,” he said. 

A low chuckle. Thomas lifted his head just in time to see Catherine dropping down to meet his eyes.

“You said that it would be easier for me if I stayed just a man, since I’m in a relationship with a woman.” When Thomas nodded, Catherine continued in that low, quiet voice. “But I don’t think so. I think it’s easier for _everyone else_. To label me. To label Elia, too. Isn’t that tyranny? To be trapped and unable to express not only my inner morality, but my inner _self_ as a whole, for the ease of those who are not obliged to live within my skin?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Thomas jerked his head away. The air was too thin. He couldn’t breathe. He clasped his hands together, lifting them to his face, pressing the knuckles of his thumbs over his eyes again. Suddenly, he wished he’d brought his glasses along. If only so he could break the lenses and use the edges to do something. The stars he was seeing now weren’t nearly sharp enough.

Fingers closed around his wrists, pulling his hands away. Thomas let them go.

“Maybe I’m being presumptuous – though I have the right to be since you were to me – but I’ve seen people go through what you are now, Mr Jefferson. You’re looking for an exorcism for the wrong thing.”

Thomas laughed again, practically hiccupping with the sound. “What should I be exorcising instead?”

“The traps that you’ve made around yourself based upon what other people say, or might say,” Catherine told him.

Pulling away from those hands, Thomas stood up. He shook his head. “It’s not as easy as that,” he said. “You don’t know- I…” His shoulders shuddered, and he dragged a hand through his messy, tangled curls. “I have a job. I have a reputation.”

“Yeah,” Catherine said, voice thick with something that was too dark to be actual humour. “Like I said, I was expecting better from you.”

“That’s not,” Thomas stopped himself. His head was starting to spin again. Maybe he’d stood up way too fast. He could barely process what the hell was happening, much less deal with the obvious disappointment of someone who was a complete stranger and whose opinions shouldn’t matter to him.

Then again, wasn’t all this about the opinions of complete strangers? No, it…

“Not about my reputation,” he said, words spilling out of him. He stared at his hands again. Kant, Benthem, Rawls. He’d used their ideas in his most famous speech. But the words taped onto his desk were based on the very same ideas, too. How the hell could the same ideas be used to justify and deny the same things at the same time?

Catherine wasn’t coming closer. Thomas didn’t want to know what kind of look those eyes were seeing on his face. He took another breath even though he already knew it wouldn’t help.

“You didn’t answer any of my questions about Weeks or Elric Sands,” he said, mind kicking into some kind of automatic gear.

“There’s not much to tell,” Catherine shrugged.

“Might be,” Thomas hesitated. Was the excuse good enough? “Might be useful to give me a way to contact you anyway.”

He wasn’t coming here again. He wouldn’t be able to find the exorcism he needed; not while Catherine was here.

Still, it seemed that his ploy didn’t work, because those lips curved up into another wry smile. “Give me your number instead,” Catherine said. “If I have anything useful, then I’ll contact you.”

Thomas shook his head. “I don’t have my cards with me,” he said softly. He had tried his best to bring nothing that had his name on it here; his attempt at anonymity had failed spectacularly despite that. “So just call the DA office.” He paused. “What’s your full name?”

“My legal one, or the one that I prefer?”

Unsticking his tongue once more from his throat, Thomas reminded himself that he actually wanted Catherine to contact him. Never mind that he didn’t know what for. “The second.”

“Catherine Ring.” Another wisp of a smile. “My wife’s surname. You’re not getting the one from my birth certificate.”

“Okay,” Thomas said, because there was nothing else he _could_ say.

He looked at Catherine for a moment more. Then he nodded – mostly to himself – before he made to leave the toilets. Footsteps followed him, and he stopped at the doorway before he opened it.

Before he could say a word, Catherine lifted a hand. “Don’t give me thanks you don’t mean.”

Oh. Thomas licked his lips, and tried to think about something else. He knew he _should_ do something. Catherine did something that could be constituted a favour to him, even though he didn’t want it. There should be thanks given.

Was that complying with general standards instead of his own personal morality? He didn’t know. He _didn’t know_.

“What,” he started. His mouth was dry. He bit on the split lip, letting the blood spill again and wetting his tongue. He swallowed. “What pronouns should I use when I tell the receptionist at the office about you?”

Catherine blinked. There was suddenly a light in those dark eyes that nearly made Thomas cringe. He didn’t deserve that. 

“She.” Very, very soft. “It’s always she.” A shaky smile. “Unless it’s ‘her’.”

“I,” Thomas swallowed down blood again, letting metal coat the back of his throat. “Okay.”

He waited until she – _she_ – nodded. Then he left the toilets. They were the staff ones, he noted distantly. He found the door, walked out to the back alley without really seeing it, before he headed towards the street. He kept going until he could no longer see the club even out of his peripheral vision.

Then he found a curb and sat down on it. He knew he should call for a cab. But he didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to go back to his huge house with that guestroom meant for a man who thought him so disgusting that he no longer wanted to visit him; with that bed that had only been his but should never have been.

But he should go home. 

Was that complying with general standards instead of his own personal morality?

Thomas bent his head, rested his head between his knees. His eyes burned. Everything was too complicated when it had always been so simple— oh. 

Simple. There was someone who always managed to make everything so clear, so simple.

Scrambling for the burner phone he’d bought for tonight, he punched in a number he had memorised a long time ago. He lifted it to his ear. It rang for a long time.

Then, just when he was about to try it again: “Who the fuck is this?” A man’s voice. Unfamiliar. Immediately, Thomas hung up. 

Right. Martha’s number had been reassigned to someone else entirely. Martha was dead. She had been dead for five years. How could he have forgotten that?

His fingers were tapping another number. He stared at it. He pressed the ‘call’ button.

“Hello?” The voice wasn’t right. Almost, but not quite.

“Sally,” he rasped. His hand was shaking. He gripped the phone tighter. “An hour. Be at my house in an hour.”

“Mr Jefferson,” Sally started. “I…”

“An _hour_ , Sally,” he snapped. He bit back the _please_. He never pleaded with her. If there were lines that he was going to hold onto, then it would be these ones. Something solid he could wrap his fingers around.

“Okay,” she said. She sounded nervous. She always sounded nervous. “Okay. I’ll come over in an hour.”

“Good.” He hung up.

Thomas rubbed his knuckles over his eyes again. He took a deep breath, standing up. He looked around him, checking for the street name. 

He called for a cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paragraph Catherine quoted from Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence in this ‘verse is adapted from the _actual_ Declaration of Independence. The paragraph with “We hold these truths to be self-evident.” I lifted some phrases directly.
> 
> By the way, Catherine has a historical basis: Elma Sands, at the time of her murder, was living with Elias and Catherine Ring. Her wife Elia is a genderswitched version of Elias. They have their own very long backstory that peripherally involves Elric, and I might write that one day and post it separately if anyone’s interested and I have time. (I have this habit: I create OCs, or canon OCs, and they develop entire lives of their own inside my head. Even Levin and Wes have fully fleshed out lives and reasons for what they do. Apparently I don’t do throwaway characters/plot devices very well. Which is problematic because I always end up having too many characters who are important to me but not the plot. Which ends up in me cramming as much of their characterisation as I can in the _one scene_ they appear in.)
> 
> Also I adore all of you and your wonderful, lovely, and utterly amazing comments. Unfortunately, work and writing the next chapters (it takes literally ALL of my spare time) mean that I didn't have time this week to give you all beautiful people the replies you deserve. But I will reply! Before the next chapter! I love all of you!


	9. it might be nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To get some very specific people on your side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: a ridiculous amount of ethical philosophy used to justify terrible behaviour. (This is a legitimate warning.) Second scene: depiction of PTSD flashbacks from an outsider’s POV.

_March 11, Friday_

When Aaron stepped into the Debauchee, Wilmot was behind the bar again. He cocked an eyebrow, and the other man smiled, jerking his head to one side. Aaron nodded, and headed in that direction.

For a man who was known for his reserve and ability to fade into the wallpaper, Madison always seemed to prefer one of the more open parts of the play area. He was sitting on a folding chair placed against the wall, his usual contracted sub on his knees with his head on Madison’s lap. Madison’s fingers were tangled around a soft leather braid – something Aaron heard that he made himself – that led to the collar on the sub’s neck, and his other hand was buried into those voluminous curls.

Aaron fought down a smile, and carefully stopped himself from wondering just how many people in this club had picked up on the resemblance between Madison’s chosen sub and Jefferson. It wasn’t obvious, especially when the boy’s face was hidden, but Aaron had seen him playing with others before.

The shape of the eyes, especially at the corners when he smiled. The curve of the jaw, though the boy was clean-shaven and his lips far too thin. Skin a couple of shades darker than Jefferson’s, but with the same long, thin fingers and easy grace. 

Madison’s eyes lifted and caught Aaron’s above the boy’s head. Aaron held the gaze, then curved his lips up into an expression that was neither smirk nor smile, but something in between. He held it there for long moments while Madison studied him, watched as the man’s mouth continued moving and his fingers continued tugging even as he took measure of Aaron. He filed away the heavy lines of exhaustion around Madison’s mouth and the shadows underneath his eyes that were thick enough to show through his dark skin and the club’s dim lights.

Slowly, Madison nodded. Aaron kept his gaze for a moment more before he turned and walked back to the bar. 

“You’re playing with fire here,” Wilmot said, sliding Aaron’s usual vodka martini over to him.

Aaron shrugged. “Aren’t I always?”

Wilmot threw his head back and laughed. “It’s a different fire, toying with Madison this way,” he said. “He might just be an opponent who is actually smarter than you.”

“He might be,” Aaron conceded. “But does that really matter?”

“Likely not,” Wilmot said, pulling over a bar stool to sit down on it. His eyes never left Aaron’s. “Your advantages don’t stop at your intellect.”

Lips twitching, Aaron raised his glass in salute for the compliment, but said nothing else. Though Wilmot was rather attractive in his own way – what with those cut-glass cheekbones, light eyes, and wispy hair – he was far more useful to Aaron on his feet than he would be on his knees.

“Anyway,” Wilmot continued, looking away from Aaron to pluck a bottle of cognac from behind the bar. His finger circled the top, but didn’t uncap it. “I’m going to give you a couple of hints.”

“Much obliged,” Aaron murmured.

Wilmot ignored him, lifting up the bottle and squinting at the liquid inside. “Pay attention to Madison’s arms and shoulders,” he said. “Oh, and he brought a bag along with him today.”

Making a soft sound of assent, Aaron sipped at his martini. “Any other news?”

“His pretty little question mark has been buying bottles of hard liquor by the dozen and cigarettes by the carton,” Wilmot said. His eyes darted towards Aaron, and there was something sharp in his smile. “Bit of a mess, all around.”

That was something Aaron had already expected. But, then again, he never came to Wilmot for the direction at which to point a gun; only to stock up on ammunition.

“You know, I usually don’t gossip,” Wilmot said. He swiped a heavy-bottomed cognac glass from the shelf above him, holding it up to the light. “I don’t take part in the disputes between people happening outside this door. But…”

Aaron laughed, soundless with his shoulders shaking. He sipped at his martini before turning it over and tilting the rim towards Wilmot again. He caught those light eyes with his own, and licked at the part of the rim where those pink lips had touched when he raised the glass to his own again.

“Keep trying,” he said. “Maybe one day.”

“That’s your way of saying ‘never’,” Wilmot said, because he had never been a stupid man; he couldn’t have opened this club, gained the clientele he had, and kept all of his wealth together if he was. “But that’s the fun part of it, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.”

Wilmot huffed. “Maybe I should try my hand at Madison instead,” he said, arch. “Maybe he would actually do it.”

Reaching out slowly, Aaron curled his fingers around Wilmot’s jaw. He pressed his nail on the skin right beneath the ear and dragged it downwards, watching a line of red appear. He listened to Wilmot’s quiet gasp, and smirked.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Madison approach. His hand slipped back down by his side.

“No, you won’t,” he said. “He won’t treat you like you want to be treated.” 

Lifting his glass in another salute, he hopped off of the bar stool. “The third room,” he said, and headed upstairs. 

Madison didn’t take very long – Aaron had barely had the time to make himself comfortable on one of Wilmot’s custom-made couches with the thousands thread-count upholstery before the door to the private room opened. Madison strode in, posture military-straight. He glanced at Aaron, then shed his suit jacket and folded it with precise motions, setting it on the arm of the couch. Aaron hid his smile behind his glass because he had dressed down today – polo shirt and dark slacks – precisely to make Madison do that.

Without the jacket, the width of Madison’s shoulders was obvious. They were broader than the last time Aaron had seen him, and his biceps resembled tree trunks even more now. Madison looked like he could break Aaron’s spine without effort. Aaron took a sip of his vodka martini and watched as the man picked up his messenger bag again, put it carefully on top of the jacket, and took a seat. 

There was no alcohol in his hand.

“Judge Madison,” he murmured over the rim.

“Counsellor Burr,” Madison greeted. He looked at Aaron expectantly. Aaron counted seconds.

Five later: “What do you want?”

Usually, Madison’s patience could outstrip Aaron’s own. Aaron put his glass down, considered what he had planned to say, and threw all of it out of the window.

“I’m here to offer you some advice,” he said.

Madison cocked his head. Then he leaned backwards, spreading his arms out, practically taking up the entire couch that was meant for two people. Another surprise: Aaron always thought the man was above such juvenile tactics. 

“That’s new,” Madison said. “Why?”

“Concern.”

Lips quirking, Madison let out a huff that served as laughter for men like him. He shook his head. “I find that hard to believe, Counsellor Burr.”

“You can call me Aaron.”

“I’d rather not,” Madison shot down immediately.

Slowly, Aaron allowed an eyebrow to crawl upwards. “You clearly suspect me of having ulterior motives,” he said. “Why?”

Leaning forward, Madison rested his elbows on his knees. Despite the swollen shadows beneath them, his eyes were as sharp as ever. Not even the slight blue tinge of his lips detracted from the intensity of his full focus.

There were many signs that Madison was a dangerous man. His eyes were the primary of them.

“Because,” Madison said, his voice still low and absolutely calm, “you would not have asked for a meeting without an ulterior motive.”

Before Aaron could say a word, Madison cocked his head to the side. “Shall I make a guess?”

“Go ahead.”

“You want to offer me advice. If I take it, and whatever situation that we are now speaking around improves due to it, I will owe you a favour. Even if I do not, you mean for me to remember tonight as the moment where you extended a friendly hand. As such, I am meant to think better of you. I am meant to, once again, owe you a favour.”

Madison’s hands linked together. “Am I wrong?”

Aaron tilted his head back, and drained the last of his martini. The alcohol slid down his throat. He looked away from those dark eyes, staring at the glass in his hand. His thumb slid from the top of the stem to the bottom. Then he put it down on the marble coffee table with a deliberately loud _clink_.

“Do you think I am so stupid as to underestimate you?” he asked mildly.

There was no overt widening of the eyes, or hitch of breath. Madison was far too self-controlled for such things. But his knuckles grew a little paler. That, Aaron knew, was a victory. 

He drove the knife in a little further: “Neither do I have so little confidence in my own abilities to try to manipulate you to convincing Jefferson to go easy on me for this particular case.”

Though Madison was obviously trying to stifle himself, Aaron could definitely see the way he jerked at the sound of Jefferson’s name.

Jackpot.

“What,” Madison said, in that calm voice that now sounded just the slightest bit strained, “are you talking about?”

Picking up his empty glass, Aaron twirled it between his fingers, looking at it so he could meet Madison’s gaze only out of the corner of his own eyes.

“Your health has been going downhill again,” he said softly. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard in the gym. Jefferson is loading up on alcohol and cigarettes like he’s trying to bury himself in bottles and butts. Circumstantial evidence, but damning enough.”

“How do you know all this?” Madison asked. That strained note was getting stronger and louder.

“I have my sources,” Aaron said. He smiled. “There are certain advantages to being a New York native, you see.”

“What do you want?”

Aaron put down the glass. He sank back into the couch cushions, crossing his legs. His eyes never left Madison’s.

“A proper opponent in eighteen days,” he said in the same tone as before. “Not a wreck of a human being who could barely string two sentences together.” He cocked his head, and borrowed a line from one of his acquaintances: “There’s no fun in defeating someone off their game.”

That was not precisely a lie. Merely parts of the truth that he was willing to tell.

Madison’s eyes were boring into him again. Aaron didn’t move; didn’t fidget.

“What makes you think that I am capable of ensuring that?” he said finally.

“Circumstantial evidence,” Aaron repeated, enunciating every syllable deliberately, “but damning enough.”

There was silence for a very long time. Madison’s gaze was fixed upon his own hands, but the slightly unfocused look in them told Aaron that he wasn’t actually looking at them at all. Neither was Madison actively freaking out either – he was too calm for that. No, the man was calculating, playing out scenarios in his head based upon the cards that Aaron had laid upon the table.

Finally: “What advice can you give?”

Aaron spread out his hands, shrugging. “My father and grandfather were both preachers,” he offered.

“That’s not going to work,” Madison said. His lips curved up into a small smile, sharp at the edges. “Don’t fall into the bad habit of assuming based on stereotypes, Counsellor Burr.”

Southern men who were not religious at all. Aaron cocked his head. “That’s a surprise,” he admitted, tossing another metaphorical card onto the table. He ran over what he knew of Madison and Jefferson again; the former merely waited.

“A couple of decades back,” Aaron started slowly, “Richard Posner reframed Mill as such: ‘the rights of your arm end where his nose begins.’” He smiled. “I’ve found that to be a particularly good philosophy to live by.”

“Oh?” Madison raised an eyebrow. There was a light in his eyes that cast the shadows beneath even darker.

“Mm,” Aaron nodded. “An action can only be judged immoral when it causes harm, whether overt or covert. For both sides of your presumed situation, there is no harm involved. The opposite of it, really.”

“Yet such a philosophy cannot be universalised,” Madison pointed out.

“Can it not?” Aaron tilted his head, fixing his eyes on Madison. “If, to paraphrase Jefferson himself, the purpose of laws is to protect the liberty of people and their individual freedoms, then the boundaries of those freedoms must be defined. What better way than the absence of harm?”

Madison shook his head. “Harm is too nebulous a concept,” he said. “Overt harm, bodily harm, can be quantified and qualified both. Covert harm…” his lips twisted. “It cannot.”

Ah, right. Aaron nearly forgot: Madison had the bad habit of actually _caring_ about how his subs felt. He supposed that was all the worse when the sub was someone he both cared about and who cared about him.

Once more, Aaron was glad for the decision he had made over a decade ago to draw thick, solid lines separating the different areas of his life. He carefully pushed all thoughts of Hamilton aside.

“The Hippocratic Oath states: “thou shalt not do harm,” Aaron said, changing tack. “Yet there are medical procedures that do direct harm to the body. Chemotherapy and cauterisation are just a couple of examples. But those procedures do not break the oath. Pain and harm are caused, but it is for the purpose to of healing.” 

His smile widened, just very slightly. “Such harm is no longer harm, is it?”

“Are you now justifying your own methods?” Madison asked.

Aaron spread out his arms, giving an exaggerated shrug. “Only partly,” he said, because that could not be denied. He _did_ hurt his subs – he whipped and stepped on and beat them – but all that harm was asked for and consented to, and hence his selfishness was justified. Any further harm he might do – the covert harm that Madison was so fixated on – was none of his business.

“But there is logic in that justification.”

“Perhaps there is,” Madison nodded. Before Aaron could speak in order to drive in the point further, he smiled. “But it’s not enough.”

“Only because it cannot be universalised,” Aaron said. He leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms. “My question then is: why should _any_ law be?”

Madison didn’t speak. He only tilted his head to the side, as if saying: _isn’t that obvious_? Aaron bit back a laugh.

“Individuals are not, and should not be, beholden to the world to give justification for all of their deeds,” he said. “In America, we are beholden primarily to our states, for states’ rights mean that the laws of every state may differ from those of the next.” Weeks’s case would not be a case at all if it had happened in New Jersey rather than New York, after all.

“If that’s the case, then the universality of morality already cannot hold. It contradicts not only the rights of states, but also the rights of individuals.” The very thing that made Jefferson’s name famous in New York. “The very fact that the law has and _must_ change as time passes means that Kant and Bentham were wrong.”

“There is,” Madison said slowly, “still Rawls.”

Biting back a laugh, Aaron leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “Social contracts do not apply in this case. To return to Posner and Mill: the right of your arm is restricted only within a crowd.” He paused. “When the situation is only between two people, the boundary between fist and nose, and the right to cross over it, is entirely up to the individuals.”

“Yet are we as individuals not beholden to the law?” Madison murmured.

This time, Aaron _did_ laugh. “That should be my worry,” he said, even though he knew that Madison most likely meant that as a rhetorical question. “Not yours.” 

Madison’s tastes rarely ran to things that would actively cause overt harm that would draw attention of others. Whether that was a product of his obvious idealism, or if his idealism was a product of his tastes, was something Aaron would leave for another time.

He picked up the glass again, running his thumb over the rim as he watched. Madison was a strange man in that Aaron could practically see him thinking, and yet nothing of his face or gestures gave away _what_ he was thinking about. Transparent yet opaque at the same time: another sign that Madison was dangerous.

Finally, Madison looked up. There was the faintest smile on his lips.

“I’m curious,” he said, voice still low and soft. “How do you actually care so little?”

Aaron stilled. He forced himself to not look away from Madison, meeting that dark gaze full-on instead.

“The question, I believe,” he said, carefully keeping his voice composed, “what are the variables in your childhood that allowed you to care so much?”

Madison blinked. Slowly, his lips curved up into a terrifyingly gentle smile. Too late, Aaron realised that he had given something away; had said three words that he should not have let slip.

He breathed, and kept his smile on.

“I see,” Madison said. He stood up from the couch with his hands on his knees. As Aaron watched, he put on his suit jacket, picked up his bag, and headed for the door. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, turning back and meeting Aaron’s eyes again.

“Don’t worry, Counsellor Burr,” he murmured. “You did achieve your objective: I owe you a favour.”

“But you reserve the right to pay it back however you see fit,” Burr finished it for him.

Still staring at him, Madison’s smile widened another fraction of an inch. “You are a clever man, Counsellor,” he said, voice dipping so low that Aaron had to lean forward to catch it. “But, as I think we all know, intelligence can be a great detriment.”

Aaron opened his mouth. But before he could voice his question – _to what?_ – Madison had already left the room. Aaron stared after him in the silence left behind that was bereft of even the slam of wood on wood because Madison had evidently regained his quiet, controlled reserve.

He stood up, and headed for the window of the room. Streetlights cast black asphalt a familiar sickly orange. Aaron closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against the glass.

If the mind was a furnished room, then there was a closet in Aaron’s that had not been opened in nearly a decade. Now he was standing in front of it with his eyes fixed on rusty hinges and his hand resting on the doorknob.

Dammit.

Breathing in through his teeth, he pushed himself away from the window. He picked up his glass and headed downstairs. 

When his eyes scanned the room, he told himself that he wasn’t looking for Hamilton.

***

_March 11, Friday_

The sun had barely moved from the middle of the sky, and it was already four in the afternoon: the days were getting longer again. 

Four zero three, Alexander corrected himself as he checked his phone. He shifted his backpack further up his shoulders, stopping himself from pacing up and down the street. He craned his neck, watching the playground nearby. Though there were quite a few children there, none of them had short, curly hair and familiar eyes.

Not yet, then.

Though he was definitely not going to charge Ezrine Weeks for these hours, Alexander was still working. He was working the past few mornings and afternoons as well when he came to this area of Richmond Hill to try to figure out the schedule of the two people that he was hoping to speak to. It was work, and it was logical work. He stifled down the hysterical laugh at himself that wanted to escape.

There, in the distance: he could see them. Alexander took a deep breath, adjusted the straps of his pack so that it wasn’t resting so high up, and walked down the streets.

“— and so Mrs Hernandez said,” the sweet, high-pitched voice was saying as Alexander turned the corner. “Mr Hamilton!” 

Alexander turned, and pasted what he hoped was a convincing surprised look on his face. He had practiced in front of his mirror a few times. 

“Aunt Sarah, Aunt Sarah, it’s Mr Hamilton!” Theo said, practically hopping on one foot in her excitement as she tugged on Sarah Burr’s hand.

“Yes it is, Theo,” Sarah said. She gave the little girl a small smile, and allowed herself to be dragged in Alexander’s direction.

“Hi, Mr Hamilton!” Theo chirped. She had on a cute sundress – with prints of round yellow birds – with a long-sleeved top underneath and white pants, and her curls were pinned away from her face into two pigtails and bands with more birds on them. But, Alexander decided, her bright eyes and brighter smile were far more adorable.

“Do you remember me?”

“Of course I do,” Alexander said. How could he forget the sheer visceral shock he had felt when he first realised that she existed? 

Dropping down to one knee, he looked her in the eye. “Theo, right? It’s a memorable name.”

Theo giggled. “Thank you,” she said, and bopped a little curtsey in front of him. Alexander blinked, practically dizzied by the sheer wealth of affection he felt towards the girl. Slowly, he reached out a hand and placed it, carefully, on top of her head.

She blinked, squinting a little as she tried to find his eyes through his fingers. “Why are you here, Mr Hamilton?”

“I had a meeting around the area,” Alexander said, lying through his teeth. He pasted on another smile and shoved down the discomfort. “It ended early, so I was just walking around, looking for a nice café.”

“There’s one further down the street,” Sarah said, her voice far softer and more measured than Theo. “If you just walk down, you’ll find it. It’s the only place with tables and chairs outside.”

Alexander had been lingering around that exact café for the past two hours. He shook his head. “No, it really is okay,” he said, smiling up towards her. “It’s… pretty serendipitous that I met you guys. Do you have time to talk?”

Sarah opened her mouth. But before she could speak, Theo interrupted: “What’s seren- serendi…” she frowned.

“Se-ren-di-pi-tous,” Alexander said, enunciating the word slowly and carefully for her. 

“Oh!” Theo chewed on her lip. “Serendipitous?”

“Yes,” Alexander nodded. Of course Burr’s kid would be smart enough at four to not trip over a five-syllable word on her second try, even though she was saying it slower than she should be. “That’s it.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Theo,” Sarah chided. “What _does_ it mean?”

Looking up, Theo pouted at her aunt, who only raised an eyebrow at her. The little girl heaved a giant sigh. “What _does_ it mean, Mr Hamilton?” she asked.

Alexander’s mouth twitched. “Good luck,” he explained. “It means that it was good luck that I met you two.”

“Why can’t you say good luck, then?”

“Well,” Alexander said, frowning as he tried to put his thoughts together in a way a four-year-old could understand. “It doesn’t just mean good luck. It also means that I didn’t expect it at all, and it makes me happy.”

“But,” Theo said immediately. “Isn’t good luck always unexpected, and isn’t it always a good thing?”

“Uh,” Alexander said. But he was saved from scrambling for words when Sarah laughed, dropping down to her knees – a good distance away from him – as well so she could look at Theo.

“Sometimes people use words you don’t know because _they_ know them,” Sarah said, her tone gently teasing as she poked Theo’s nose. “It’s not nice to ask people why they use certain words. Most times, they just pop into their head. Like your words pop into yours, right?”

Theo chewed on her lip a little bit more. “I guess,” she said. Then she brightened. “But I learned a new word today! Thank you, Mr Hamilton! I’m going to tell Daddy that you helped me with My Studies!”

Christ, Alexander could hear the capital letters in her voice. It distracted him so much that it took him another second before he realised what she had actually said.

“No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head hard. “Don’t tell Burr. I mean, don’t tell your Dad. Don’t tell him that you guys saw me here.”

“Why?” Theo asked, cocking her head to side.

“Uh,” Alexander floundered, trying to find a reason. He tugged at his ponytail. “Just… don’t?” he said weakly.

Blinking rapidly, Theo stared at him. She wasn’t the only one – Sarah’s stare was so much heavier.

“Is it one of those complicated adult things that I’m not going to understand?” Theo asked, and there was something so exaggeratedly world-weary about her tone that Alexander almost burst out laughing.

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said, and suspected that he didn’t quite manage to keep the relief out of his voice. “It’s a complicated adult thing.”

“Speaking of complicated adult things,” Sarah said, cutting into the conversation. She was smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “How about you go play with your friends, Theo? Mr Hamilton and I need to talk about complicated adult things.”

“Can’t I listen in?” Theo asked, pouting.

“It’s boring,” Alexander protested, pulling out the first thing he could think of.

“You’re not boring,” she countered immediately. Then she sighed, planting both fists on her hips as she shook her head at the adults. “Fine. I’ll go _play_.” She tried to whirl away in a huff, but her bottom lip stuck out and her pigtails bobbed. Alexander’s lips twitched. 

Despite her protests, she joined the other children on the playground easily, shrieking as she leaped amongst them and was immediately embroiled in some kind of game that involved climbing up the slide.

“She’s a cute kid,” she said.

“Yeah,” Sarah agreed. She stood up, picking up Theo’s backpack – which had been dropped on the sidewalk at some point of the conversation – and headed towards the benches around the playground. Alexander followed her, and sat down on the bench. He made sure that there were a few inches separating them.

“Why have you been following us the past couple of days, Mr Hamilton?” Sarah asked.

Alexander froze. Everything he was about to say died immediately on his tongue, and his mouth was suddenly dust-dry. He swallowed hard.

“What makes you say that?” he croaked out finally.

Sarah threw him an amused look, shaking her head. Then she leaned back with her hands on the bench, staring up to the skies.

“I’m not good with making threats,” she said softly. “But I’m good at spotting them. I’m very good at recognising when there are eyes on me and Theo when there shouldn’t be eyes.” Her gaze slid over to him, and the usual warm brown was flint-cold. “Don’t think me a fool.”

Closing his eyes, Alexander rubbed the heels of his palms over them. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just… I wanted to find a time where I can talk to the two of you without Burr around. I’ve just… been looking for the right time, I guess.”

“Mm,” Sarah said. There was something familiarly heavy about her gaze on him. Alexander bit his lip, and stared at his hands.

“Sorry,” he repeated.

Stretching out her legs, Sarah flashed a smile at Theo when the little girl waved in their general direction. It looked _entirely_ genuine despite the hardness in those brown eyes. Alexander twitched his fingers slightly and tried to not look like a horrible monster.

“An apology isn’t what I’m looking for,” she said in the same soft voice. “I’m not looking for a reason either – I can probably guess. My brother tells you nothing about himself, so you’re hoping to find some answers through Theo and me, right?”

“Yeah,” Alexander said, reduced to croaking again.

She nodded. “I can understand that,” she said. _You can?_ Alexander almost said, but she was still talking.

“What I can’t figure out is: one, why can’t you talk to Aaron and ask him to bring you over instead of creeping around like a stalker; two, why can’t you come over to the house while he’s at work if you’re looking for me; and, related to that, three, why are you bringing Theo into this.”

Folding her hands, she shifted around until she was looking at him. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve been thinking about it for the past few days, Mr Hamilton,” she said. “And I think I can condense all three questions into one.”

Alexander felt like he had been put through a steamroller. Or a meat grinder. One or the other. Despite how harmless Sarah seemed in contrast to the near-constant unsettling sense of danger that hovered around Burr, they were _definitely_ siblings. Holy shit.

He swallowed, and tugged at his ponytail again. He felt like a child. “What is it?”

Leaning in slightly – still, Alexander noticed, with a great deal of space between their faces – Sarah lowered her voice: “Are you fucking my brother?”

This time, Alexander really couldn’t help himself: he laughed. A single sharp bark before he shoved his hand over his lips, muffling the sound. He couldn’t stifle the way that his shoulders were shaking, or the tears that came immediately to his eyes. When Theo looked over, eyes wide with curiosity, he flapped his free hand in his direction and hoped that was enough reassurance.

There were many ways that he could define what he was doing with Burr. ‘Fucking’ was… It was _very_ far down the list.

“I’d take that as a ‘no’, then?” Sarah asked, voice still remarkably calm.

“That’s a,” Alexander clamped his teeth together again as another high-pitched cackle tried to escape. He shook his head hard. “That’s a no,” he said once he regained some measure of composure.

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “I didn’t expect him to remain celibate – it’s been four years since Theodosia’s death, after all.” 

Despite the way it was spinning, Alexander’s mind pounced immediately on that information. Four years since Burr’s wife died. Theo was… Theo was four-years-old, and her name was _Theo_. Burr named the daughter his wife might have died giving birth to after said wife.

Somehow, that was entirely in-character for him, and also something Alexander would never have imagined of him. A pertinent summary for his entire relationship – if that would could even be used – with Burr. Christ.

Sarah was watching him still. Alexander tried to clear any and all expression from his face.

After a moment, she said, “I retract my statement. Two questions.”

“Uh huh,” Alexander nodded. He took a couple of deep breaths. “What’s the second?”

“Are you his sub?”

Alexander _stared_. He couldn’t help it – that was the last, the absolute _last_ – thing he ever expected her to ask. His jaw was hanging loose. He ducked his head down, pressed his chin over his chest, and rubbed his palms over his eyes again.

“No, I,” he started. He shook his head. “How do you _know_?”

Sarah laughed. It was soft and gentle, a genuine and sweet sound. Alexander’s hands slipped from his face just so he could gawk at her properly.

“Aaron doesn’t talk to anyone about himself,” she said softly. “Not even to me. But his reasons for not telling me things are different from the ones he has for everyone else.”

She smiled. “He doesn’t have to.”

“What,” Alexander blurted out before he could stop himself. “What are his reasons for not telling everyone else about himself?”

Shaking her head, Sarah leaned back against the bench, crossing her arms. “You’ll have to wait for him to tell you that,” she said. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I…” Alexander hesitated. After a moment, he shook his head. “It’s… complicated. I’m not... I’m not _his_.”

“Ah,” Sarah said. She cocked her head to the side, eyes still fixed upon him. “Do you want to be?”

Alexander opened his mouth. Then he closed it. “I’m the one who is supposed to be asking you questions about Burr,” he said weakly. “Not… you asking questions about me.”

Shrugging, she turned her attention back to the playground. “Let me tell you something, Mr Hamilton,” she said, still speaking in that calm, even tone. “If you’re gathering information on Aaron to even out some kind of odds in your head because he knows everything about you and you know nothing about him… that’s not Aaron’s fault.”

Wait. How the hell—

Something must be showing on his face, because Sarah laughed again, shaking her head.

“You’re an open book,” she said. “All of your emotions, all of your thoughts… they show through your eyes, Mr Hamilton. And Aaron and I…” Her lips quirked up again, but there was something terribly empty about her smile.

It was Burr’s most frequent smile.

“Our eyes are sharper than most,” she said. “Practice, you see. One that he’s had a little more than me.”

Oh. That was… that was both an answer and not. Alexander was hoping for this meeting so that he could clear up some of his confusion, and now… Well, he had the meeting. But the fog had only grown thicker.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said, more than a little plaintive. 

“No, I don’t expect that you would,” Sarah said. Her chin was tucked against her chest now, eyes falling half-closed. “But I’m not going to tell you. It’s not only my story to tell.” Opening her eyes, her lips quirked upwards. “Besides, I don’t think you’d be interested in my side of it anyway.”

“But I am,” Alexander countered. His arm shot out, grabbing onto Sarah’s elbow, fingers squeezing tight. “Please, _please_ tell me. I really want to know. It’s killing me to not know, whether it’s your side of the story or his—”

Sarah wasn’t looking at him anymore. Well, she was, but not his face. Her eyes were fixed upon his _hand_. On his fingers, wrapped right around her upper arm. Alexander’s words died in his throat, because the look in her eyes… The strange, unfocused look in her eyes…

Immediately, he let go, recoiling, pressing his hand to his chest. But she was still frozen, still unmoving. 

What had he _done_?

Cold. It was cold, all of a sudden. Cold arms around him, stiff and unmoving. Cold breeze through an open window. The smell of vomit and bile. The stench of piss. _Creak, creak, snap, crack_. His own voice, shouting, shouting…

Footsteps. There were never footsteps in his dreams. Never…

“Aunt Sarah!” A child’s voice. There were no children in his dreams either. (He wasn’t a child. _Mind was older, mind was older_.) “Aunt Sarah! Did you see what I did? Did you, did you?”

A small hand on his arm. A small hand on his face, tapping, tapping. _Knock, knock_. _Ms Fawcett?_ A machine’s screeching. A bloated face, tongue lolling and purple. _Well, he’s obviously a goner_.

“Mr Hamilton!”

He knew that voice. It didn’t belong here. No. ‘Here’ was what didn’t belong. He reached out, and _grabbed_.

When the world slammed back into focus, the first thing Alexander saw was a pair of bright brown eyes. Theo. Her hand was on his wrist, tugging and tugging. Towards what? He moved his head – his neck felt like a rusty hinge – and he realised that Theo was sitting on Sarah’s lap.

Sarah, who was still staring at her own arm, and hadn’t moved. Shit. He… he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t…

“It’s okay, Mr Hamilton,” Theo said. She gave him a bright smile – how could she still be smiling? Especially at _him_? – before she turned around. She threw her arms around her aunt’s neck, half-standing on the bench as she hugged her tightly.

“Come home, Aunt Sarah,” she said. “Come home. You’re okay. Come home. No one will hurt you. Theo has a sword and will drive all of the dragons away. So it’s okay, you can come home.”

Slowly, Sarah closed her eyes. Every movement of her eyelids seemed to be made with a great effort. Her breath stuttered.

“Theo?” she finally said. Her voice sounded hoarse and rasping.

“Yeah,” Theo said, pulling back. She pressed her small hands on Sarah’s cheeks, squishing them together until Sarah’s lips were pursed tight. “It’s your amazing knight Theo, here to chase away all of your dragons!” She punched a hand into the air. “Kabish!”

Sarah made a sound, inarticulate and half-choked. Her arms wrapped around Theo, and her face buried into those curls. Her chest shuddered with every breath.

“Kabish,” she repeated. “You did good, Theo. You chased the dragons away.”

Pulling back, Theo poked Sarah on the nose. “It’s ‘you did _well_ ’, Aunt Sarah,” she corrected, grinning with all the smugness her small body could possess.

“Yes, yes,” Sarah said. She took Theo’s hand, pressing it to her own cheek. “You did _well_. Especially in correcting me.”

Giggling, Theo hugged her aunt tight again, burying her face into her neck. Alexander looked away, staring at his hands. His tongue was stuck on the roof of his mouth; all of his words were gone.

“I saw that, you know,” Sarah said. Her voice was so soft that Alexander thought he was imagining it for a moment.

Then his head shot up. “What?”

Pulling an arm away from Theo, Sarah tapped at the side of one eye, then pointing towards Alexander’s. “That,” she said.

“Oh,” Alexander said dumbly. Then he remembered, belated, that there was something else more important he had to say.

“Sorry.” The word practically tripped over itself in its rush to escape him. “I’m… Fuck, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“You said a bad word!” Theo crowed.

“Yes, I did,” Alexander admitted immediately. “Please don’t repeat it. And I’m sorry about that too. I’m sorry, I…” His shoulders were starting to shake. He tried to breathe but his lungs were seizing up. This was a bad time. Okay, granted, there was never a good time, but this was a spectacularly bad time—

A pair of small arms wrapping around his neck. Wide, bright brown eyes looking into his. Alexander opened his mouth. He exhaled. The tightening knot went with the air.

“Do you have dragons too, Mr Hamilton?” Theo asked, cocking her head to the side. “Do you want me to fight them for you?”

“No, I,” Alexander started. He took a deep breath. “No dragons. But… may I hug you?”

Theo giggled. “You’re silly,” she told him, bopping his nose. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed against him. “Of course you may.”

Alexander stared down at her. He had never been hugged by a child this young. Not even when he was her age. Hell, he… he was trying to remember the last time he had been hugged like this, and that was…

He couldn’t remember. It was too long ago. Did he still remember how to hug someone?

“Just put your arms around her,” Sarah said, because Burrs were obviously psychic. “It’s really easy.”

“Okay,” Alexander said. He put his arms around Theo. Theo made a happy little sound, and pressed her face into his shoulder. He patted her back, then her hair, then her back again. His joints felt like rusty hinges.

They stayed like this for a while. 

Then Theo pulled back, looking at him with squinted eyes. “Are the dragons all gone, Mr Hamilton?” 

“No dragons,” Alexander said automatically. When she frowned at him, he laughed, shaky but sincere. Okay, so that was a crappy lie. 

But this was the truth: “All gone. Because of you.”

“Of course,” Theo said. “I’m the great dragon slayer.” She grinned at him, and did something entirely unexpected:

She kissed his cheek.

Alexander stared. Theo giggled. Her finger poked the spot she kissed.

“I like you, Mr Hamilton,” she told him, guileless like only a child could be. “Please stay Daddy’s friend.”

With that, she climbed off of his lap and ran back to the playground. Alexander was still staring. His mouth was hanging open, just a little.

“Aaron’s the one who taught her about the dragons,” Sarah said softly. “He taught her how to pull me out when I get …” She glanced towards him, and shrugged. “You know.”

“Sorry,” Alexander said. It seemed the only word remaining in his vocabulary.

Sarah shook her head, brushing back a strand of her hair. “Don’t,” she said softly. “You didn’t know. I didn’t tell you. It’s not your fault.”

Before Alexander could say a word, she huffed out a laugh that was... half-empty. At most. “Not mine either,” she continued, stretched her arms up to the air and staring up at them. “Just a shitty situation.”

That was… a way of putting things that Alexander had _never_ thought of. He shoved it away because the weight of it threatened to upend his entire thought process.

“I won’t touch you without permission again,” he promised. Then his brain kicked in, and he corrected himself: “I won’t come near either of you again if that’s what you want.”

Getting information about Burr wasn’t important. Levelling the odds with the man wasn’t important. Not when it threatened to compromise the safety and wellbeing of both Sarah and Theo.

How the hell had Alexander ended up caring more about the sister and daughter of his colleague slash Dom slash enemy slash whatever Burr was more than the man himself, he didn’t know. With the exception of the case, nothing had made sense in the past couple of months. 

“You heard Theo, right?” Sarah said, smiling crookedly. “She likes you. So… yeah, you can see us again. Just don’t follow us, alright?”

“Yeah,” Alexander said, barely managing to squeeze the word out through the sudden lump in his throat. “That’s… I can do that.”

“Call before you come too,” Sarah said.

“I don’t have your home number,” he said, just a little sheepish.

When she laughed again, it was still shaky-sounding, but there was actual mirth in it this time. “You have the address, but not the number,” she muttered, running a hand over her hair. “Of course.”

“Uh,” Alexander started. He pasted a sheepish smile on his face that felt pretty sincere. “I took your address from the firm’s database.”

“That’s what I figured,” Sarah said, dry now. “Look, I…” she hesitated, then turned fully to face him. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Aaron, but… I don’t think you’re a bad person, Mr Hamilton.”

Alexander shoved down the bile that rose to his throat. He made sure that his smile stayed in place. “Thanks,” he said. “And you should call me Alexander.”

“Not even Aaron calls you Alexander,” Sarah pointed out.

Shrugging, he leaned an elbow on the back of the bench. His smile shifted into something that resembled a smirk. “Well, then,” he said. “That’s a privilege you have over him, isn’t it?”

Just to make sure that she realised that he was joking, he waggled his eyebrows a couple of times.

Sarah stared at him. Then she ducked her head down, and slapped her hand over her mouth. Her shoulders shook. When Alexander strained, he could hear her _giggling_. Not the deeper chuckles from before, but full-out girlish giggles.

He grinned despite himself.

“That was…” she shook her head, gasping and smacking her chest to get her breath back. She looked up to him, then giggled again. “I can’t even describe it.”

“Am I forgiven for scaring you for the last couple of days?” he asked, only half-serious.

Her eyes flicked up to him. Then she shook her head, leaning her shoulder against the back of the bench, her eyes dark and serious on him.

“Not yet,” she told him. “But you’re getting there.”

Alexander closed his eyes. There was warmth bubbling up in his chest, and though he knew he didn’t deserve it, he didn’t try to push it away either. There were still remnants of chill lingering on his fingertips, so it was just… it was just expedient.

“I’ll keep trying,” he said, not knowing if he meant with Sarah, or Burr, or even with Theo. Or all three of them at once. “Thanks.”

“Hey.” He opened his eyes, and widened them when she reached over and brushed the back of her hand lightly over his wrist.

“You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the philosophical arguments that are raised in the first scene regarding morality are already explained in Chapters 4 and 5, but I’m still not sure how clear everything is. If it’s _still_ unclear despite my efforts - I rewrote so many parts of it so many times - this is the summary: Madison talked about how morality and righteousness of actions must be based upon some kind of universal law or principle; Burr, however, supported the view that morality is heavily based upon individual interpretation and contexts, and universality itself is a lost cause. Madison wasn’t talking about his own views, but Jefferson’s, and Burr knew and wanted exactly that. Madison’s actual views are not yet known because this is Burr’s POV. (Madison’s POV is coming, don’t worry. I know he’s the most neglected out of my five at this point. That will change.)
> 
> I tried writing this scene in different ways, but none of them are IC for both Burr and Madison. They are very reserved, closed-off characters. The only way I can have them advancing both plot and characterisation that’s logical for them is to use philosophy as a shield. Especially since they are lawyers. (Hence Sally has 99 problems and none of them is fluffy bullshit that has no relevance to her life.)
> 
> Theo is the cutest.


	10. a mind at work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The downside of being loved by someone intelligent is that they know how to put the pieces together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: depiction of self-harm with and to nails, mention of of a non-platonic relationship between an adult and someone underage, and… heavy depiction of the issues and damaging thoughts that arise out of desperate working-class circumstances. (I don’t know how to describe this better.) Third scene: depiction of self-harm, very iffy consent issues, and two very messed up people trying to fix each other and themselves and making everything worse.

_March 12, Saturday_

The water pouring down on her head had long gone cold. It plastered her hair to her face, turning corkscrew curls straight, moving with every single blast from the showerhead until they were like insects crawling on her skin. If she stayed here any longer, she would get a cold; the human body wasn’t made to withstand such temperatures for long.

Sally didn’t move. There was no use getting out of the shower; nothing for her to do. She couldn’t sleep; couldn’t study. She’d tried.

Lifting an arm, she stared at it beneath the pale yellow fluorescent lights. There were scratches there, half-healing, scabs made by her body when she got out of the shower the last time. She picked at them, staring with strange fascination as her nail sank beneath her skin and plucked out the scab. Like pulling out the bad parts of half-rotting vegetables. Blood welled, a round bead. A crawling maggot. She held her arm under the spray and let it wash away.

She couldn’t see her shoulders very well like this: on her knees, facing the wall. But she didn’t need to. The touches of his hands were imprinted there. She scraped over the curve. More scabs gathered beneath her nails. The water turned pink for just a moment before it ran clear again. His voice was still there, stuck in her ears; her head. 

_Martha, please, Martha._ A litany. A prayer. The clinical part of her mind, the doctor part of her, murmured once again: _He cried longer this time. His sobs were louder_. A voice dressed in a doctor’s coat, reading a report engraved on her bones, underneath the skin.

Sounds coming from outside the shower. Sally shivered. She didn’t look up as the shower door slid open. The figure was distorted from the spray, but still familiar.

“What are you doing in here?” A hiss. Water splattered against frosted plastic. “Fuck, that’s _cold_.”

“Taking a shower,” the voice in the doctor’s coat said. Her professors would be proud of her, she thought. She was practicing detaching herself; the most useful skill in the medical profession.

“Hey.” Angelica’s voice was softer now. She was getting her beautiful clothes off, stripping down to only her underwear. Her heels were red, patent leather. Louboutin’s, maybe? Sally wasn’t very good with brands. Her head was too full for any more names. 

Warm hand on her shoulder. Sally shrunk away from it, pressing herself harder against the wall. A voice was telling her something that sounded like _danger, danger_ , but it wasn’t the doctor’s voice. It wasn’t what she wanted at this moment, so she ignored it.

“Are you alright?” Angelica asked. Her voice was soft and so very concerned. She was kneeling in front of her. Her makeup was washing off from the spray, streaking down her face. Her bronzer looked like liquid gold. She was so gorgeous. Sally shrank even more against the wall.

“I’m fine,” she said. Somehow, she managed to keep her voice even.

“Bullshit.” Angelica reached up. For a moment, all Sally could see were her breasts, pressed together by her black bra, skin shimmering. Polished ebony. 

The water stopped. The last drops continued to fall from the shower head. One landed on Angelica’s eyelashes. Sally wanted to kiss it away.

“Won’t you tell me what happened?” Angelica asked. Sally stared at her. Before she could say a word, Angelica took a breath, and said:

“Darlin’.”

It wasn’t the same accent. But the accent never mattered anyway. It wasn’t the same tone; too flat, too deliberate. But the tone never mattered anyway; it always changed. Just the word. Only the word was enough. Sally was drowning again.

Drowning with the water switched off. Illogical; a contradiction. A laugh wrestled out of her chest. It shuddered through her body, and ripped out through her throat. Her mouth felt raw with it, bleeding without blood, and wasn’t that another contradiction as well?

Angelica’s hand on her wrist, pulling her fingers away from the wall. The doctor voice noted that she was clawing at it. _Signs of mental instability_ , it stated. With the next non-breath: _Martha, please, Martha_.

Sally laughed again. She kept on laughing as she was dragged to her feet; as a towel was draped over her shoulders. It continued to tear out of her as Angelica pulled her out of the bathroom and into the bed. It stopped just as abruptly as it started when Angelica’s arms wrapped around her, and her cheek rested against thin arm and slim shoulder.

A kiss in her hair. Sally jerked away. She would have fallen out of the bed if Angelica hadn’t caught her, dragging her back in place. Her hands felt like lead, blood solidified in her veins from the chill of the water and the words carved into her bones. 

“Don’t,” she gasped. “ _Don’t_.”

She grabbed the covers, curling into herself on her knees, hugging the corner of the bed. Angelica stopped moving.

“You know,” Angelica started. Sally didn’t look at her. There were bits of broken-off concrete and scabs beneath her nails. 

“When I realised who was going to be promoted to be my boss, I did some research.” A pause. There was a hint of blood under her nails, slowly staining the sheets. “See, everyone keeps talking about how they don’t know why he came to New York. Well, I…”

Sally was getting the sheets dirty. Angelica continued, undeterred by her silence, “I know why he left Virginia, even though I don’t know why he came to New York in particular. There weren’t many pictures, and the few there were are hard to get to, but… I got hold of a few. And, Sally…”

Another pause. It was almost like theatre. From what little Sally knew of theatre. She wasn’t like Angelica; she hadn’t had the chance to watch plays often.

“She looks just like you,” Angelica finished, her voice infinitely gentle.

“Was that,” Sally croaked out. She swallowed, and shook her head. “Was that supposed to be a revelation?”

Angelica’s eyes were heavy on hers. Sally didn’t look up. She rubbed at her chipped nails. They scraped rough over her fingertips.

“No,” Angelica said, in the same overly-mild tone. “See, I can figure out why he’s doing what he is. But I can’t figure out why _you_ are. Not when you have me.”

Sally’s head jerked up. She stared at Angelica; studied those calm eyes and that still face. The laugh threatened at the back of her throat, but she shoved it down. “What?”

“You have me,” Angelica reached out a hand. “Whatever he’s offering, whatever he can give you that makes it worth what you’re feeling… You can get it from me. You know that, right? You don’t have to… you don’t have to let him do this to you.”

“Oh,” Sally said, the sound bursting out of her before she could think better of it. Her shoulders shook. Angelica’s words were better than cold water. Though the words were still in her bones, the doctor voice wasn’t the only one in her head anymore. Her head was still full, but there was… there was…

Shrugging the towel off her shoulders, Sally moved. She crawled towards Angelica, barely aware of the crooked smile twisting her mouth as she cupped the older woman’s face. 

“Sweet Angelica, coming in like a knight in shining armour ready to save me.” Her voice pitched higher without her mind’s commands, turning sickly-sweet. “Should I tell you what is really going on between your boss and me?”

“Sally,” Angelica started.

“Shh,” Sally placed a finger on those lips she loved to kiss. Then she replaced it with her thumb, scraping her chipped nail over the full plushness. “Let me tell you, alright? Is that okay?”

Angelica stared at her, silent. She nodded.

“I go to his house,” Sally said, dipping her voice softer. Into a Martha-like whisper. “I slap him. I grab his hair. Sometimes, I force him to his knees. Sometimes, I tell him that he’s not allowed to come and he obeys. Sometimes…”

Her nail pushed into the corner of Angelica’s lips. “Sometimes, I close my hand around his neck, and he will choke. He will beg while he chokes.” She leaned in, and brushed her mouth over Angelica’s ear.

“But you’re right about one thing. He always calls me Martha.”

When Angelica’s hand tried to reach for her, Sally grabbed it. She shoved the older woman down onto the bed, straddling slender hips as she pinned both of Angelica’s hands over her head. Angelica’s lips parted, but Sally shifted her grip, barely managing to hold onto both wrists as she slapped the other hand over Angelica’s mouth.

“Don’t,” she said, practically spitting the word out between her teeth. “I’m not your damsel in distress to save. I’m not—”

Angelica jerked her head away from Sally’s hand. “That’s not what I _meant_ ,” she said, eyes bright. Sally refused to acknowledge why. “I just- you don’t have to do any of that for him—”

“Not for him,” Sally snarled. “For _me_. He doesn’t know.” When Angelica’s eyes widened, Sally grinned, baring her teeth. “He doesn’t know what I’m doing, Angelica. He doesn’t have a safeword. I can do whatever I like to him.”

Her fingers wrapped around Angelica’s neck. “Whatever I like,” she repeated, enunciating every single word. “And he’ll cry for me. He’ll give me however much money I like.”

“But,” Angelica said. Her throat moved beneath Sally’s hand as she swallowed. “But it’s not good for you. It’s making you feel terrible.”

Sally smiled. Her cheeks ached. “Those are the things I’m willing to sacrifice for what I get,” she said softly.

“You don’t _have_ to sacrifice any of that,” Angelica said immediately. Her body arched up beneath Sally’s, struggling against the grip on her wrists. “You could’ve just _asked me_.”

“How?” Sally spat back. “How, when you weren’t _there_?”

Rolling her shoulders, Angelica threw her off. But she stayed there, back flat on the bed, only moving her hands to grab Sally’s face. To force their eyes to meet. Sally’s breath hitched, but she shoved that reaction down.

“Call me,” Angelica whispered, the word forced through her teeth. “Text me. Email me. Or Eliza, if you prefer. I was in _London_ , Sally. I wasn’t dead. If you needed money, if you needed it so badly, I could’ve flown back and just _given it to you_!”

When Sally didn’t say a word – too frozen, too overwhelmed – Angelica pulled herself up and pressed their foreheads together. “I’d ask for nothing. There’s nothing you need to do. If… if it’s a matter of pride, then you can take it as a loan, and pay me back when you’re done with school. Anything… anything but having to see you like… like…”

She choked.

Slowly, Sally closed her hands around Angelica’s wrists. She pulled them away. “How dare you,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “How _dare_ you.”

“Sally,” Angelica started, reaching out for her. Sally slapped her hands away, and scrambled off the bed. She grabbed the towel, wrapping it around herself. Too naked, too exposed. Her hands were trembling but she managed the knot anyway. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Angelica scramble up to her knees.

”Fuck you,” she said, looking into those dark eyes again. Her hands clenched at her sides. “ _Fuck you_ if you think I’m your charity case.”

Her arm jerked to the side. “Get the _fuck_ out of my room.”

“I’m not,” Angelica shook her head. She brushed away a thick lock of hair out of her face. “I’m not trying to treat you like a charity case! I’m just trying to _help_.”

“Help,” Sally said. She laughed, a high-pitched cackle that wrenched itself out of her throat and left it bleeding. Her shoulders shook. “You want to _help_. Of course you do.”

Taking a step forward, she stared down at Angelica. Maybe it was pathetic, how powerful she felt, standing while Angelica knelt on the bed. A reversal of their usual positions. She allowed herself to relish in it anyway. If there was anything she had learned throughout her life, it was to take whatever she could get.

“Look at the rich woman,” she said, turning her voice sing-song. “Look at how _generous_ she is, flinging money towards a poor little girl who can’t afford her own education. Look at how _kind_ she is, throwing money around like it solves the problem.”

“That’s not,” Angelica started. She took a deep breath. “Don’t twist my words like that!”

“I’m not twisting your words,” Sally said, savage. “I’m just saying how it _is_ , Angelica.”

“Why can’t I help when you’re obviously being hurt by… by whatever that’s going on between you and Jefferson?” Angelica’s voice was strangled and raised, barely below yelling.

Sally shoved down the instinctive shudder at the name. Her nails dug into her palms. “Because,” she said, barely keeping her voice level. “Because it’s what I’m doing to _earn it_!”

Angelica opened her mouth. She closed it. “What?” she croaked out.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Sally laughed. She ran her hands through her hair, broken-off nails catching on the strands. She pulled them out, relishing in the tiny sparks of pain. “You don’t _get_ it.”

“Help me get it,” Angelica said. Her voice sounded strange. Desperate. Pleading. Sally’s heart ached. She pushed that away, too.

“It’s _mine_ ,” she said. “All that I do, whatever he makes me feel… It’s _mine_. The money I get from him is _mine_ too. It’s all mine. Only mine, because I _earned_ it.”

She swept an arm outwards. “This room. It’s mine. It’s mine _,_ Angelica. I earned it. Every single cent.” She drew the arm closer, scraping her nails over the scratches she’d made herself a few hours ago. “This? This is just what I needed to do to _earn_ that. It’s no different from having to do manual labour. No different from you losing your weekends because of a case. Whatever… whatever that does to me is inconsequential because I’m earning my own way. I’m not…”

A deep breath. She jerked her head upwards. “I’m not depending on anyone’s _kindness_. I’m making my own way.”

Angelica closed her eyes. Her head bowed. Sally only had a few moments of triumph before that dark gaze turned back on her again, sharp and narrowed.

“But you’re still depending on him,” Angelica said softly. Some kind of effort at being gentle. “You’re still depending on him being stupid enough to not realise what you’re doing. You’re still dependent on him being enough of a bastard to take advantage of your desperation.”

Every single sentence was a sword driven into Sally’s chest. She froze. Her lips trembled despite herself. She wasn’t… she wasn’t driven into this by desperation. She’d made a choice. She’d made a _deal_. It was hers. It was wholly and completely _hers_ and she wasn’t going to let Angelica take any of it away.

“As if you have the moral high ground to judge,” she said, scrambling for some sort of words. “How old were we when we started this, _ma’am_?” She dragged in a breath, and cocked her head to the side.

“You were twenty-seven. I was sixteen. You have no room to talk about taking advantage.”

Angelica flinched. Good. That was _good_. “That’s not nearly the same thing.”

“Oh no,” Sally laughed again, her shoulders shaking. “What he’s doing is legal.” Her lips stretched wide into an ugly, sneering grin. “What an example you’re setting here, Ms Bigshot Lawyer.” She paused.

“Sorry, I should have said, _Ms Schuyler_ , Senator’s daughter.” Her nails dug into her palms again. “How are you different from him again? The fact that you knew what I was doing, maybe?”

“That’s not, I,” Angelica fucking _stuttered_. She raised her hands to her face, rubbing the heels of her palms over her eyes. “It’s not… I just…” Her hands dropped back to her side. She leaned forward.

“I just want to help, Sally,” she said. God, were those tears? Those were tears on her lashes. “Please. Please let me help.”

“Fuck off,” Sally said, ignoring the way her heart was mutilating itself in her chest. “I don’t need your help. I was doing just fine for the whole time you were gone.”

“Please,” Angelica said again. “I can’t… It doesn’t have to be about money. Just… Won’t you let me...? Please, Sally.”

Sally pointed at the door. “Fuck. Off.”

Angelica didn’t move. She simply stayed there on the bed, still kneeling. The tears on her lashes began to streak down her cheeks. Slowly, her hand reached out.

“Okay,” Sally said. She stripped off the towel and headed for her closet. She dressed without looking. Clipped the bra, pulled on the panties, buttoned the pants, and tugged on the t-shirt and hoodie. She grabbed her bag. “If you won’t go, then I will.”

Footsteps. “Sally,” Angelica said again, and Sally jerked out of her grasp. She whirled around, tipping her head up to meet those dark-bright eyes.

“Don’t you dare talk to him about me,” she said, managing somehow to twist her voice into a snarl. “I’m not your _fucking_ damsel in distress. Don’t you dare try to save me.”

Before Angelica could say anything more, Sally stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

There was a spot in the library that was usually deserted. Her feet took her there while her eyes burned. She kept them straight ahead, not looking at anyone, focusing only on placing one foot in front of the other. Somehow, she managed to reach that place without anyone disturbing her. 

Sinking down onto the floor, Sally leaned against the bookshelf. She looked down at herself. 

She was wearing the hoodie she had when Angelica came back. The jeans she wore were the first pair she’d bought for herself when Jefferson’s first payment had come in. They didn’t smell like anyone; only detergent.

Her hands were bleeding. So were her arms. Sally traced her finger over the skin, and dragged a bead upwards. She followed that trail with her nails, opening new wounds.

Maybe if she kept doing this, she wouldn’t look like Martha anymore. But if she didn’t look like Martha, Jefferson would stop giving her the money. And that was important. That was important, because now Angelica knew. 

Angelica knew.

Sally buried her face into her hoodie. There was only detergent. She shoved the cloth into her mouth, nearly deep enough to gag.

She screamed.

***

_March 12, Saturday_

The quiet tinkling of porcelain on porcelain; an immediate ducking down of the head, and a half-sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” Eliza Schuyler said, brushing her hair behind her ear. 

Shaking his head, Aaron took a sip of his flat white. It wasn’t very good – basic New York standards, really – before he leaned back and stretched out his legs, careful to not bump his foot against hers.

“Oh, so that’s not a subtle hint that you’ve tired of my constant prattling about Theo?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Eliza laughed, shaking her head. “I work with children, and Theo is an absolute joy whenever I get to see her.” There was a subtle twist of her lips, half a hint: _which isn’t often enough_. Aaron hid his smirk behind his coffee cup.

“So feel free to go on, if you like,” she continued. “It’s been a while since we’ve had the chance to meet.”

They had literally bumped into each other in the queue at this particular café in midtown Manhattan. Eliza said that she was running a couple of errands she had been putting off, and she had to go back to the office later; Aaron made noises that could be used to indicate that he felt the same. Yet, somehow, they found themselves sitting at a table outside, simply talking. They had plenty of right to do that, Eliza told him – likely trying to convince herself – because it _was_ a Saturday.

She was harmless if one didn’t anger her. Aaron never had, so he didn’t mind the slight lapse in control.

“A few months isn’t very long,” he said mildly. “Just long enough for stimulating conversation over an hour or so.”

“Only an hour?” Eliza teased, leaning forward until her elbow on the table and her head in her hand. “Am I boring you, Counsellor Burr?”

“You’re incapable of boring anyone, Director Schuyler,” Aaron retorted in the same tone. “How go the affairs of the Children’s Sanctuary?”

If there was any way to derail Eliza Schuyler, it was to ask about her non-profit organisation that helped foster children and orphans. Look at the way her eyes brightened at the very mention of the name; look at how her well-bred manners were thrown out of the window as she gesticulated as she spoke about the children for whom she designed programmes and upon whom she checked up frequently.

Sometimes, when Aaron was feeling particularly maudlin, he would wonder how his life might have turned out if he and Sarah had met a social worker with as much passion for their work as Eliza when they were children. He wasn’t maudlin very often.

“Now I must be the one boring you,” Eliza said, cutting herself off abruptly. She sipped her mint and honey tea.

Before she could speak, Aaron raised a hand. “Don’t even think about apologising,” he said, slipping in the briefest hint of a warning tone. Just as a tease. “Or thanking me.”

Eliza’s eyes lowered. She smiled behind her delicate, transparent teacup. “You never change, Aaron,” she murmured. “That’s what you said practically the first time we met.”

Blinking, Aaron put his coffee down. “How’s Maria?” he asked.

It was through Maria Lewis that he had met Eliza, all those years ago in college. Before Maria’s name became well-known as the byword for ‘slut’ throughout the campus, Aaron had managed – with his connections and some handy law-speak – to get her a restraining order against a man named Reynolds. Aaron never bothered to remember his full name, no matter how many times he spoke it or wrote it when he was getting that order for Maria. Or when he helped her raise enough of a fuss – discreetly, of course, behind the scenes – to have Reynolds expelled for sexual harassment.

He never liked it when anyone used their greater power over someone else to abuse them. Call it a personality quirk, if you would.

Two man-shaped phantoms edged into his vision. They were familiar. This was too: pushing them back, shoving them back into their usual dusty closet at the back of his mind. Another spectre, newer: Hamilton, hovering at the fringes. This one Aaron chased down with a sip of coffee.

“She’s fine,” Eliza said. Her lips curved up into a soft, sweet smile, and she ran a finger over the rim of her mug. “We’re …”

Pausing, she looked up to him. “I probably shouldn’t continue, should I?”

“Why not?” Aaron blinked.

“Won’t it be a reminder of something terrible?” Eliza asked, delicacy in every word.

Aaron couldn’t help it: he laughed. “Theodosia’s death doesn’t mean that I have stopped being able to take joy at the happiness of others,” he said, purely sincere. “You should know that by now.”

“You’ve grown even quieter since…” she shrugged, more reluctant to speak about the death of his wife and her friend than he was. “None of us thought that was possible.”

“That’s merely perception,” he pointed out. “You stopped having someone who tells you just how much I have a tendency to prattle on when left unchecked.”

Eliza’s lips twitched. “It’s difficult to imagine you prattling,” she said, dry as dust.

“It does happen.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, Eliza shook her head. But she didn’t continue, turning away from him to watch the people milling about the streets outside the glass windows and door. It was weekend: midtown Manhattan was practically flooded with people.

“Can I…” she started. Dark eyes made larger by eyeshadow turned back to him. Her thumb was rubbing over the handle of her teacup. “May I ask a possibly insensitive question?”

Aaron blinked. He considered her definition of ‘insensitive’, and then nodded. “Go ahead.”

“How are things going between you and Alexander?”

Now _that_ he didn’t expect. Immediately, his hand closed around his coffee cup. But he didn’t lift it to drink – it would be too obvious a tell to a woman as clever as she was and who had known him for as long as she had.

“Tongues have been wagging,” he murmured instead. It was the only possibility, since Eliza usually used her personal room in the club for her scenes.

“Just one particular one,” she said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Little Will’s.”

It took Aaron a moment to realise that Eliza was using the same name her older sister Angelica had for John Wilmot. His lips twitched; of _course_. Nothing happened within the Debauchee without Wilmot’s knowledge. Nothing happened outside of it either, it seemed. Most of the time, this worked to Aaron’s advantage.

He sipped his coffee. “I didn’t know you still refer to him by that name,” he said.

“Who?” Eliza tilted her head. A lock of hair fell into her eyes, and she brushed it away impatiently. “Little Will?”

“No.” He paused. “Hamilton.” Of all people, the one who had the most reason to despise the man was Eliza. No, Maria. But any reason Maria had to despise Hamilton would be Eliza’s as well, wouldn’t it?

Then again, matters were never so simple and clear-cut. Case in point: when he first saw Eliza at the Debauchee years after they had both graduated, he was surprised, especially when he realised that she was still with Maria. But he should have known better: he had experience with arrangements that were made when the needs of one partner didn’t match the other.

Eliza was staring into the depths of her tea. She picked up her spoon and stirred it needlessly. “If there’s anything I’ve learned,” she started, voice soft. “It is that to hold grudges is to allow that person to still have power over you.”

She smiled. “Besides, I think he has been punishing himself enough without me wishing more upon him.” Her eyes were brittle enough to cut.

“Yes,” Aaron said. He sipped his coffee. “I know.” He was Hamilton’s method of self-punishment. He had known that from the moment they began. It was much of the reason why he allowed things to continue.

There was a term used by biologists to describe a certain kind of relationship between different species: mutualism. It was also useful for human dealings.

Brows furrowing, Eliza leaned forward. “Then how do you keep doing it?”

Aaron paused, considering his words. “Not everyone has a heart as open as yours,” he said carefully.

Her head lowered, but her eyes remained on his. Brows furrowing, she lifted her cup up; not to drink, but to wet her lips. To give her hands something to do, perhaps.

“I see,” she said. Somehow, Aaron had the feeling that this had been a test, and he had failed it spectacularly. He drank his coffee and shrugged it off.

They fell into silence. Eliza went back to staring out towards the street. Aaron found the movements of her hands, clenching and unclenching around her cup, to be more fascinating.

“You’re the one person I know who sees him on a regular basis,” Eliza said, her voice soft. She hesitated, then turned towards him. 

“Will you take a message? From me? And even Maria, if she’s willing?” Her eyes were bright and earnest.

“No,” Aaron said immediately. He met her eyes, shaking his head before she could protest. “I do wish I could help, Eliza,” a little white lie, “but I suspect that any message with me as courier will not be taken well by Hamilton. Perhaps Laurens might be more helpful.”

Eliza sighed, circling the rim of her cup again. “John only sees him when there’s a body he’s interested in,” she said.

“Mulligan?”

“More often, but mostly because investigation for a case goes on for a while, instead of a one-shot autopsy.” She gave Aaron a wry smile. “And, before you ask, Lafayette will be tied up with his company’s affairs for the time being. There’s only you left.”

Aaron opened his mouth, about to suggest Madison – the man had dealings with Hamilton back in college, didn’t he, when they were in the same debate club together? – when Eliza chuckled, shaking her head.

“Sorry,” she said, smiling still but with sincerity shining in her eyes. “I was just remembering something Theodosia said.”

“What?” Aaron blinked. That was a trajectory he hadn’t expected.

“She said once that…” she laughed again. “She was very lucky, because you’re someone who would give away nothing of yourself to anyone, and commit yourself to nothing if you had your way, but she was an exception to both rules.”

“That’s…” Aaron stared down at his hands. He took a breath and shoved away the soft ache within his chest at the mention of Theodosia. Then he met Eliza’s eyes again and pasted a smile on his face. “She was right about that.”

“Mm,” Eliza said. “She usually was.”

Another silence fell between them. Aaron checked his watch.

“What time is it?” Eliza asked, blinking. She scrambled for her phone.

“Around ten to three,” he said. “Are you rushing somewhere?”

“Yeah,” she said, laughing again. “I have to head back down to Brooklyn. I have a meeting in half an hour.”

“I can walk you to the subway,” Aaron said, offering out of habit.

She looked at him for a moment before she shook her head. “It’s in the opposite direction of your office,” she said. He decided to not correct her: he had to take the train, anyhow. “But sure, if you’re not in a hurry. You heard me talk all about work, but you haven’t said anything about yours.”

Aaron’s lips twitched. He stood up. “My current cases are not good conversational topics for tea-time,” he said. “Or for walks.”

“Or any kind of occasions whatsoever,” she finished, smiling out of the corner of her mouth as she tucked the loose lock of her hair back behind her ear. “You’re not going to talk about it. I got that.”

“The offer still stands,” Aaron said, deliberately keeping his voice mild. He held out his arm.

Eliza walked around the table, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Then I’ll take it,” she said. “Two against the crowd is better than one.”

“True enough,” Aaron said. He slipped a twenty out of the money-clip in his pocket without letting go of her, and weighed it down with the saucer. Sometime while they were talking, Eliza had given her own tip.

They walked out of the café together. She pressed closer to him as the crowd closed around them. Aaron wondered, briefly, how many of the passers-by would imagine the two of them to be a couple.

He laughed. When Eliza asked why, he did not tell her.

It was good enough entertainment to last until the subway station.

***

_March 12, Saturday_

James knew that he should wait for an invitation. Or call, at least. But Burr’s words were ringing in his head. _Not a wreck of a human being who could barely string two sentences together_. If enough people had noticed that Jefferson was not at his best that even Burr had heard about it; if Burr had realised that there was something going on between them… it was long past time that James did something. 

Besides, Jefferson wasn’t answering his phone calls. Everything went straight to voicemail.

Now he was standing in front of the Sleepy Hollow mansion, the one that Jefferson had never bothered to name. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand on top of the reader. When it beeped and the gates opened soundlessly, he allowed himself the barest moment of surprise and pleasure: at least Jefferson hadn’t deleted his handprint from the database yet. 

At least James’s print was still the only other one that was in said database.

“Thomas?” he called out when he opened the door. Which was left unlocked. Something else that was strange. Jefferson never unlocked the door; he might live in Westchester, and he might have a gate, but stranger things had happened before and gates could be climbed over. Or so he always said.

Calling out Jefferson’s name again, James checked the bedroom. Empty; the blankets and sheets looked completely untouched. There were no servants around either. The silence of the house made his voice echo. James shoved down the cold chill that snaked down his spine. Now was not the time.

There was never really a time for such things.

The study door was ajar. James stood in front of it. He splayed his fingers on the wood, closing his eyes so he could listen. More silence. Maybe… maybe Jefferson just wasn’t home. Maybe James wouldn’t find him here. Maybe…

He pushed the door open.

Jefferson was leaning against a bookshelf. He was dressed in nothing but a wrinkled button-down shirt and unzipped slacks that hung off his hips. His phone was lying next to him, clearly having fallen out of his pocket. It was switched off. His chest was moving, expanding and deflating with every slow breath he took. His lips were blood red, the colour dripping downwards. A drop landed on the piece of glass he was holding in his hand, streaking it even further. Jefferson’s tongue slipped out, licked along the wound on his mouth. 

Then he raised the jagged edge of the glass, and sliced open his shirt along one particularly long wrinkle. The cloth parted, easy as butter, beneath the ragged edge. Jefferson’s wrist made that exact same move again. This time, it was skin that split. The white button-down was streaked even more with red. He was surrounded by broken glass. His fingers were bright red at the tips. 

The opened window let in a breeze. A peeled-off label fluttered on the carpet, weighed down by Jefferson’s abandoned glasses.

James’s back slammed hard against the doorframe. The thud was loud _,_ echoing in the heavy silence of the house. The study was filled with the stench of cheap alcohol, filling the space sound had left. Jefferson didn’t look up; his attention entirely focused upon splitting open another line of skin. He was now following the lines of his ribs that showed through corded muscle. Skin split along thin, terribly straight lines. James was reminded of wings.

He took a deep breath through his teeth. His lungs were seizing, but he shoved a hand into his mouth, biting hard onto the heel. Pain burst behind his eyes. Focusing on it, he pulled the messenger bag off of his head, dropping it on the floor.

Stepping forward, he reached out. “Thomas,” he said again, voice low and soft. Jefferson didn’t seem to have heard him. The fingers of his other hand splayed over his ribs, and he spread them. Pulled open the wounds that were trying to scab over. The shirt he wore was a canvas of blood and brokenness.

“ _Thomas_ ,” James said again. This time, he used his voice as a whip, lashing outwards into the room. He stepped on the pieces of a shattered whiskey bottle, crunching glass beneath his feet into powder. He grabbed Jefferson’s hand before the glass could touch skin again. He dug a thumb between thin, bird-like bones; Jefferson’s arm twitched, and the piece of glass dropped onto the ground.

But Jefferson still didn’t speak. He didn’t seem to have noticed that James was there; only sitting in the same spot, wrist limp in James’s fingers. His breathing was still even. When James nudged his jaw, he turned his head up. His eyes were dark, pupils blown; glazed over entirely.

“Stop,” he said, dragging out the full extent of the voice he used on Wall Street. “Stop what you’re doing. Stop hurting yourself.”

He sunk a hand into thick, tangled curls. Jefferson licked his lips. His tongue swiped over the corner of his mouth, and left behind a streak of blood. James hissed out a breath out of his teeth, and ignored the way his stomach twisted at the sight. He ignored the blood rushing downwards, and the tingling in his fingers.

Jefferson still didn’t speak. He looked at James for another moment before he curled himself backwards. He reached out for the piece of broken glass again.

James caught his wrist. This time, he didn’t even bother with speaking. He swung Jefferson’s arm over his shoulders, and slid the other arm over the taller man’s knees. Jefferson wasn’t light by any means, but James was even stronger now – in physical strength if not in health – and though his shoulders strained and his back ached, he could still carry him. 

Out of the study, into the bedroom, into the bathroom, into the shower stall. 

Settling Jefferson down on the floor of the shower, he dragged a hand over his hair. Then he shed his jacket, waistcoat, and tie, tossing all of them into the nearby hamper to be dealt with later. He reminded himself that his bag was in the study.

Then he turned the water on to full blast, and set it to the coldest it could go.

The spray was ridiculously powerful, pouring down directly from the ceiling itself. Slowly, Jefferson began to wrap his arms around his own chest. He shivered. His eyes were still glazed over. James brushed hair and water out of them, then knelt down. He stripped the shirt off of Jefferson’s shoulders, allowed the pants to give up the ghost. He deliberately ignored the silver chain and the wedding ring hanging from it. He didn’t dare look at Jefferson’s underwear, only standing up again and taking the body soap. He switched off the water.

It was like taking care of his siblings when they had been much younger. Except… except Jefferson was far more obedient. He barely moved as James washed him; only breathed, long and steady, and raised his arms and shifted around whenever he was ordered to. His eyes were fixed on the tiles in front of him, as if he found the wall to be the most fascinating thing he had ever seen in his life. He didn’t turn to look at James even once. 

When the wounds were mostly clean – Jefferson didn’t even hiss at the sure sting – James turned on the water again, rinsing his best friend off. He pushed open the shower door, grabbed a towel, and draped it over Jefferson’s form. He fought down the shivers that threatened to erupt in his limbs, instead picking Jefferson up again. His best friend laid there, doll-like, his head resting over James’s chest. His breathing still hadn’t changed. His mind was somewhere James couldn’t reach.

He dressed Jefferson like he would a small child. Soft commands – _close your eyes_ and _raise your arms_ and _lift your hips_ \--- those Jefferson obeyed without any hesitation whatsoever. Long-fingered hands, the calluses from the violin long faded away, rested on his lap, limp. Dead jellyfishes.

James’s fingers trembled. There was a chill that was seeping through his skin into his bones. 

“C’mon,” he said eventually. “Get up.” He closed his hand around Jefferson’s elbow, and led him into the kitchen. He grabbed Jefferson’s favourite cup, filled half of it from the hot water tap and the other half from the cold, and knelt down in front of his best friend.

Who was no longer passively accepting everything that was being done to him. Who had lifted his shirt and was picking at the barely-closed wound on his chest.

“Thomas,” James said. Despite his best efforts, the name came out like a rough, raspy croak. He closed his hand around the wrist, pulling it away. Jefferson’s eyes turned back towards him, dark and blank like glass. He cocked his head. 

“Stop.” Before Jefferson could ignore him in favour of making himself bleed again, he cupped the back of Jefferson’s neck, holding it steady, before he lifted the cup of water to his lips.

The water dripped from the sides of Jefferson’s mouth, droplets falling onto James’s shirt. James stared at him. Another breath. He closed his hand over Jefferson’s neck, pressing his thumb into the hollow of the throat.

Jefferson dropped his head back. His lashes fluttered. James’s stomach twisted again, the heat pooling deeper, tighter, pushing south between his hips.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He gripped the cup tighter, trying to not drop it. It was Jefferson’s favourite; it was from Paris. But he couldn’t do this. He _couldn’t_. It had been different the other night. Jefferson had drunk himself unconscious the other night. He couldn’t listen, couldn’t obey. He couldn’t… hadn’t done something like _this_.

His ears were roaring. Loud, so loud. Thunder in his mind. A strange, percussive beat, like sandpaper scraping over skin again and again until it was coated with blood and lost its roughness. That was the sound of his own breathing.

But there was suddenly a pair of hands around his, easing his fingers open. James let go, helplessly. He waited for the crash of porcelain on tiles. There was only a thud.

Then— a hand over his curls, sliding down to his back. His shoulder was squeezed. Light poured down past his eyelids to stab into his brain.

Footsteps. He collapsed forward into the now-vacated seat, gasping for air. It was cold. The chill sank past his bones into his ribs, into his very lungs. Twining inside every single vein, ice spreading into his arteries, spikes piercing his heart—

Metal between his teeth. The hand was back, clenching around his curls. Automatically, James tilted his head back, and he let Jefferson settle the inhaler’s mouthpiece properly. Long-fingered hand stroking over his back. The familiar, heavy taste of chemicals on his tongue. James drew it in. The hand in his hair tightened; he held his breath. When the hand let go, he exhaled. And did it again.

“ _Thomas_ ,” he tried to gasp. “Thomas, Thomas—”

“Shh,” Jefferson said. His voice sounded an ocean away. “Shh. Breathe, James. Breathe for me. You’re gonna be alright. Just a bit of cold, yeah? Breathe.”

James breathed. Another gust of chemical-infused air. It was so cold. His lungs seized again, and his back bowed, curling forward. He coughed, shoving his hand over his mouth. Jefferson pried his fingers away, pressed the cup over to his lips.

“Drink something warm,” Jefferson’s voice murmured. Through the strange beat of his breathing, through the storm of his heart, James noted that it sounded hollow. “C’mon. You’re gonna be alright.”

Tipping his head back, James let the water slide down his throat. Warmth spread outwards into his chest, completely different from the heat that was still curling and coiling below his stomach. He tried to reach out, but all he reached was the cushion of the chair. He clawed at it, gasping even harder.

Hands wrapped around his shoulders. Jefferson’s voice again, wafting over his ear: “Breathe with me, James,” he murmured. “C’mon. Breathe with me.”

Long, even breaths. It wasn’t right. Not with the look in Jefferson’s eyes. But James couldn’t see those eyes now. There was only the rise and fall of that familiar chest under his hand, the arrhythmic soothing of a hand over his back. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe in tandem with Jefferson. 

Slow. Steady.

His lungs stopped seizing up. Metal between his fingers; James gripped tightly onto the inhaler. Jefferson pulled away. “Stay here for a bit,” he said, still in that hollow whisper. His hand ghosted over James’s arm before he stood up and left the kitchen.

James buried his face into the cushion of the chair. It was harder to breathe properly when he didn’t have Jefferson’s cues to follow. His body had never been his to control but his mind had always been. He had neither now, his head spinning-splintering. All he had left was to try to catch the falling pieces with his shaking hands.

Footsteps again. James looked up, but Jefferson had his hands beneath his shoulders. James pushed himself up because Jefferson couldn’t lift him, not ever since he bulked up in college, and he slumped into the chair.

When Jefferson folded himself onto his knees in front of him, there was that heat again. Coiling even tighter. Wanting, _wanting_. James swallowed it down, slumping over in the chair as Jefferson’s hands started to unbutton his shirt.

“You’re real bad with colds,” Jefferson was saying. James refused to look into those eyes. He didn’t know what was in them. He couldn’t take it. It wasn’t like that night. He shifted his arms when Jefferson pulled the shirt off of him, and bit back a breath that twisted in his throat when a towel slid over his skin. Wiping dry the spilled water.

“Have to be more careful with yourself, James,” Jefferson continued. He was standing up, hands filled with familiar soft cashmere. James’s favourite sweater, left behind here because he’d used to spend more nights in Jefferson’s house than his own. He took the thing and pulled it over his head. He watched as Jefferson turned the towel around until the damp patch was facing away from him, and wrapped it around James’s torso and neck as a makeshift scarf. 

He looked into those eyes.

They were not blank anymore. Only… only still empty, somehow. Dark and shining, like a doll’s under the bright lights of the display cabinet. His hair was falling over his eyes, strands plastered over his cheeks. The corkscrew curls were practically pressed flat. His hands were trembling by his sides. He held them out.

“We gotta get you somewhere warm,” Jefferson said. When James took one of his hands, he moved away from the chair. He picked up James’s bag, plucked the inhaler from the table where James had dropped it, and led him to the guestroom where the heating was always set higher than the rest of the house. 

Jefferson nudged him to the bed. James obeyed, sitting down on the edge of it. He wrapped the towel tighter around his body, nearly strangling himself with it. The warmth of the room made the heat in his belly even more obvious. Jefferson was still standing, staring with him with those hollow, shadowed eyes.

Then he knelt again. His hands on James’s knees. His posture was absolutely atrocious. James stopped breathing.

“Let me do something,” Jefferson said. Hands slid upwards, splayed wide over James’s thigh. “I gotta… I gotta do something. I…”

He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the darkness had changed, shifted shape. His pupils were blown wide and fever-bright. He bit his bottom lip, tugging on it. It started bleeding again, a bead of red hovering at the corners of his mouth. His eyes fell shut, long lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. He leaned forward and nuzzled James’s crotch.

Hands slamming into the bedsheets, James threw himself backwards. Away from that mouth.

What?

Too late, he realised that he said that out loud. Barely a croak, but loud still in the haunting silence of the room. 

The clock ticked. Slow, steady, inexorable. Something Jefferson had said once came to mind: _The world continues to turn, but it should not. It should not._

 __Jefferson. Staring at him with eyes wide and bright with betrayal. James’s heart twisted. The heat in his stomach coiled even tighter. God, he was so beautiful.

“Oh,” Jefferson said. A single syllable redefining defeat. His shoulders slumped. He dragged a hand through his hair. He stared down at his hands, then pushed them against his knees. “I… should probably go.”

James’s hand whipped out before he even realised it. He grabbed Jefferson’s wrist, and pulled. Too hard; the other man stumbled. His knees knocked against the edge of the bed, and he fell forward, landing on top of James’s chest. Before he could move, James hooked his leg over his, and spun them around until he was pinning Jefferson to the bed. Looming over him, looking at him.

Jefferson’s breath hitched. His lips were swollen from his own teeth, reddened by blood. James’s hand trembled as he swiped his thumb over them. More heat coiled inside him, turning his spine and nerves into snarled tangles. He pushed it down; tried to ignore it despite how his nerves felt whipped raw.

“Why?” he asked. Somehow, his voice remained steady.

Another bout of silence. The clock continued to tick. Jefferson wasn’t looking at him, head turned away and eyes squeezing shut.

“Please,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You gotta let me. I have to… I…” He swallowed. “I’ve never slept with a man, James. So that’s something I have left for you to take. I’ve got to…”

“Oh.” Not Jefferson’s voice. His own. James’s hand fell back to the bedspread. He sat back on his calves, and tried to breathe. His lungs tried to seize up again.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said. Half of the words were strangled in his throat before they escaped. “What happened is _not_ your fault. You don’t have to give me anything to… to make up for whatever you think you did.”

But Jefferson seemed to always know him. He opened his eyes, staring at James for a long moment. Slowly, he shook his head. His wet hair left streaks of water on the covers.

“I have to,” he said. He reached up, hand splaying over James’s chest, fingers curling in, half-clenching the towel that had somehow remained in place. “I have to. I can’t… I…”

He took a deep breath. “What if I pay you?”

James froze. His hands dug into the sheets, hard enough that he could feel the imprint of his nails on his palm. “What?”

“Then you… you can… you can have an excuse,” Jefferson said. The fever-brightness of his eyes was rapidly dimming, turning dark and hollow again. Dolls’ eyes at a shop display window. “You don’t have to feel bad about it. Let me give you whatever I have left and think about it as doing me a favour.”

Opening his mouth, James closed it. He leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. “Who?” he asked, the word barely managing to wrestle out of his throat. “Who made you think like that?”

Jefferson laughed. He reached upwards and tapped the side of his head. “Here,” he said, singsong. “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

 _No,_ James almost said, but he swallowed it back. Jefferson was still staring at him, but his eyes had gone blank again. There was no use in asking him now for the details; no use trying to figure out what exactly had happened aside from that disastrous night that made him this way.

His mouth was dry, throat achingly empty. He wanted to laugh at himself. He was a judge, a man who made his living deciding which words that put things considered unspeakable were better. And yet…

Stroking his hand over Jefferson’s face, he lifted himself away. Jefferson tried to catch his arm, then his sleeve and his shirt, but James caught both wrists, pushing them to the side.

“No,” he said quietly. “You have to sleep, Thomas. You’re still drunk.”

“I’m not,” Jefferson said. There was none off his usual playfulness with those words. Only a flat, near-dead certainty. “Entirely sober.”

The study probably still smelled like a bar. James brushed the back of his hand over Jefferson’s cheek.

“Sleep,” he said, twining slight command into the word. It wasn’t dangerous to do that, he told himself. He wasn’t crossing any boundaries. He had done this plenty of times before, whenever Jefferson was reaching a point where he needed to be taken care of by force. He had had enough practice with this in the last five years.

“But I don’t want to.”

A grown man should not be adorable when he acted like a recalcitrant child. James had to fight down an involuntary smile. This was familiar: automatically, he reached forward and laid a hand over his eyes. At the same time, he slid his hand into Jefferson’s hair, not carding through the strands but simply stroking his thumb over the temple.

“Go to sleep,” he said in the same tone. 

“Jaaaaaames,” Jefferson whined. His thigh lifted, brushing over James’s crotch. James bit back the sound that wanted to push out of his mouth from the sudden heat that rose inside him. He boxed it up, shoved it away. He waited.

He counted the seconds by the sound of the ticking clock, Jefferson’s body obeyed. He stopped shifting beneath James’s body, shoulders and back sinking further into the bed. His breathing began to grow ragged, moving out of that unnatural steadiness. When James removed his hand, those dark eyes remained closed.

“Thomas,” he whispered. Jefferson didn’t move. He had always obeyed so incredibly well.

Slowly and carefully, James wrapped his fingers around that beautifully long neck. He pressed his thumb over the hollow of the throat, waited half a second, and released it. Then he did it again, and again, and again, until Jefferson’s breathing evened out once more. 

Once, Jefferson joked that he never slept as well as when James put him to bed. James never told him why. Perhaps he should, now.

Those swollen lips had parted at some point. James leaned down, pressing his mouth against them. He tasted blood and sour alcohol. It didn’t matter; he kissed Jefferson slowly, slipping his tongue into his mouth, sliding the tip over the palate. Exploring every inch like he hadn’t done that night, after he came back to this house. His hands slid over Jefferson’s side, careful to keep his fingers extended so he didn’t end up skittering over a ticklish spot and waking his best friend.

Best friend. James laughed without sound, pulling back. His fingers hovered in the air above Jefferson’s face, tracing every single feature. The large, deep-set eyes. The high cheekbones. The beard, now stubbled and badly-kept. He pressed his thumb over Jefferson’s bottom lip, watching as his back arched and a soft whimper escaped him. He didn’t wake.

James knew exactly what he needed to do when Jefferson woke.

The heat inside him, urging him forward, meant absolutely nothing. It had never had a place in his life; it didn’t need to now.

Getting off of the bed, he told himself that he didn’t slide his groin over Jefferson’s thigh on purpose. Just the barest weakness of the limbs. That was all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original name of Graham Windham was ‘Orphan Asylum Society’, which obviously doesn’t suit the modern setting. ‘Graham Windham’ doesn’t suit either because Eliza’s pretty much the sole founder here. So it’s now ‘Children’s Sanctuary’. Synonyms.
> 
> Sally and Jefferson have officially hit the lowest they can possibly go (or, rather, the lowest I’m willing to let them go.) Madison will join the club in the next couple of chapters. Hamilton and Burr still have a lot longer to fall. Those two will hit their freefall while the other three try to claw their ways back up. (Fun thing about having around six different plotlines going on at the same time: different speeds and trajectories. Emotional whiplash.)
> 
> Regarding Sally being underage when she and Angelica started their relationship: I did say that there are a lot of consent issues involved here, and that they are complicated, right? That was not a throwaway line. I’ve built up to this. And that aspect of consent will be explored further. (There’s a hint in this chapter and in Chapter 7 about that. It doesn’t involve Sally.)
> 
> I should really subtitle this fic ‘Please Don’t Do Any of This, Seriously’. Everyone has 99 problems. At least half of those is directly what’s being done to them by other people.
> 
> By the way, I have officially finished writing the first draft of this fic. It's over 300k words, and 32 chapters. (I wrote all that in 10 weeks, give or take a few days.) I... will start posting twice a week after Chapter 14. Not because I'm a tease, but I need to do edits and rewrites, and Book II is... Well, you'll need the week to recover. Let me just put it that way.


	11. succinct, persuasive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need a little push

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Blanket mind-screw warning for both scenes. Second scene: _very_ dubious consent.

_March 12, Saturday_

When the doorbell rang, Alexander stopped twirling his pen in his hand. He dropped it back on top of the case notes, staring at them. There were more scribbles on the margins than there were an hour ago, but not nearly as much as there should be. He looked around his apartment, taking in the pile of takeout boxes in the sink and the clothes littering the floor. He told himself, again, that he had no need to clean up his apartment because Burr wasn’t someone he wanted to impress anyway.

Still, he ended up picking up the clothes lying in the front hall – mostly t-shirts and sweatpants; the things he wore at home instead of the office – and tossing them all into the hamper in the bathroom. The doorbell rang again.

“Coming!” he yelled. He stopped in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at himself. Ubiquitous dark circles under his eyes that he could do nothing about. Hair a mess. He scowled, retying his hair for the umpteenth time today – he really should just cut it off, honestly – before he headed for the door.

Burr was standing there, posture straight despite the hands shoved into his pockets. He raised an eyebrow.

“Did I catch you while you were in the shower?” he asked.

“Huh?” Alexander blinked. He shook his head, and dug out his phone to check the time. “You’re late, by the way.”

“It was rather difficult to find your apartment building,” Burr said. Was that an actual hint of dryness in his tone? Alexander blinked, staring. “So am I going to be invited in, or are we going to have our discussion right here?”

“Uh,” Alexander said intelligently. He raised a hand to drag through his hair, thought better of it, and stepped back. “Yeah, come in, I guess.”

“Much obliged,” Burr said. His tone was _definitely_ dry. Alexander continued gaping at him. Was this Weekend Burr? Did Burr change personality cartridges when Friday ended and the weekend started? Was that why he sounded practically human?

He shook those thoughts out of his head. Hell, he _knew_ that Burr was human; the man was too much of a bastard sometimes to not be.

“The couch’s free,” he said, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of it as he headed for the kitchen. “Take a seat anywhere you like.”

Pausing, he turned around. “You want some coffee? It’s instant.”

“I’m fine,” Burr said. He sat down on the couch and picked up a piece of paper that was going to fly off the table from the spring breeze coming in from the window.

“Okay,” Alexander shrugged to himself. He made instant coffee, dumped condensed milk into it – because it was cheaper and easier than fresh milk and sugar – and walked back into the main room. 

Burr had moved onto a second piece of paper. He looked up. “I don’t think Washington pays you so terribly that you have to live in a place like this,” he said. The dryness was gone, shifting back to cold neutrality.

Alexander blinked. “Huh?”

“You can afford better than this place, surely,” Burr said, waving his arm around himself. “Or proper coffee with an espresso machine rather than the instant kind.”

“Sure,” Alexander shrugged. That was true, at least. He sat himself down on the couch, sipping from his mug – the coffee really was crap – and wondered why he wasn’t pissed as all hell that Burr was prying into his life. Maybe because Alexander had spent practically half of yesterday trying to pry into his.

“Well,” Burr said. He put down the paper, and cocked his head. “I was actually expecting some kind of a speech.”

Lifting his eyes, Alexander snorted. “Won’t want to be predictable, now,” he said, flashing the other man half a grin. “Anyway, most of what Washington pays me goes into clothes, so this is pretty much what I _can_ afford.”

“That’s not very logical,” Burr said, still in that same mild tone.

“Maybe not for you,” Alexander shrugged. “You’re lucky enough to have the proper manners people like. But I don’t have them, and I’m never going to get them. So clothes will have to be it if I’m going to make a proper first impression.”

His lips twisted into a smile, sharp at the edges. “So my clients don’t think of me as the receptionist instead of the lawyer they’re trying to hire.”

“Do people actually think that?” Burr raised an eyebrow. He looked actually _surprised_.

Alexander laughed, heavy and dark in his throat. “Why do you think I usually don’t hang out around the first floor?” he threw out. “Or why I always head into the building by the back entrance instead of the front? I got sick of people asking me for directions and saying that I’m late and not in my cleaner’s uniform yet.”

“Your backpack,” Burr murmured.

“I should keep _some_ parts of myself as myself,” Alexander said. “Besides, it’s not as if the thing is cheap.” 

He leaned back against the couch, narrowing his eyes. “Why the sudden Spanish Inquisition?” he asked. Burr had never been particularly interested in asking him anything. The situation was usually the other way around.

“There’s a disparity that’s not logical,” Burr said. He folded his hands between his knees, and met Alexander’s eyes.

“That,” Alexander drawled, “would be my line. This is not very in-character of you.”

“Do you believe you know all of me?” Burr asked. There was something _odd_ in his tone, but Alexander ignored it because the question itself was frankly ridiculous.

“Hell to the no,” he said. “Trying to figure you out is worse than trying to find the precise shade of eyes hidden behind sunglasses. At least sunglasses can be taken off.”

“Mm,” Burr said. He picked up a piece of paper again, and turned it around to Alexander. “But you assumed enough to think that I’ll let you take the opening argument.”

Alexander blinked. He opened his mouth. “We need to make a strong stand from the very start to impress the jury. I’m better at that.”

“Are you, really?” Burr raised an eyebrow.

“Of course,” Alexander started, and then sank his teeth onto the tip of his tongue to stop himself. He wasn’t going to bring up that Washington let him have this case because of his passion. Burr didn’t know that. More importantly, Alexander had no idea what he’d do if he _did_ know.

He took a deep breath, and looked into Burr’s eyes. “I should take the opening speech because _I_ believe that Levi is innocent,” he said instead.

“Do you think I don’t believe the same thing?”

“I think,” Alexander said through gritted teeth, his hand clenching on top of his knee, “that you absolutely refuse to believe in _anything_.”

Burr looked at him with blank, dark eyes. They looked almost hollow. Alexander sank his nails deeper into his palm, and pushed away the memories of the last few times he’d seen Burr’s eyes like that.

“The jury have to make their decisions based upon facts,” Burr said, still in that absolutely mild tone. “Not emotion.”

“But emotions are what allows people to see facts a certain way,” Alexander retorted immediately, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “So if I make the opening argument, then I can lead them to see things our way. No matter what Jefferson says.”

“Do you always underestimate the jury so much?” 

“What?”

“I asked,” Burr said again. “Do you always underestimate the jury so much?” 

This time, his voice was _very_ familiar. So much that Alexander’s clothes suddenly seemed completely inappropriate, and the fading sunlight from the window was too bright. 

Cocking his head, Burr’s lips curled up into a dark, dangerous smile. His eyes were still empty. “You’re not always the smartest person in the room, Hamilton,” he said, voice soft. “And even if you are… people might not be as easily fooled or manipulated as you think.”

Were they still talking about the jury? Alexander clasped his hands together, digging his nails into the web of his fingers.

“I’m confident that I can convince them to my point of view,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice calm. “I _know_ that I’m right. I know that I can make them see things my way.”

Burr’s eyes rested on him for long, silent moments. Then he leaned back on the couch, crossing his legs and folding his hands on top of his knees. Alexander met his eyes. He folded his thumb, and shoved the nail against the centre of his palm. On the exact spot that Burr had stepped on, months and miles away on that particular night.

“Okay,” Burr said finally.

Wait, what? Alexander blinked. It took him a moment he realise that he actually said those words out loud.

“Go ahead,” Burr said. “Take the opening argument. I’ll take the closing.”

But Alexander wanted the closing argument as well. He was thinking of offering Burr the opportunity to question the witnesses – both the ones they would be bringing in as well as Jefferson’s. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. There was something terribly dangerous in Burr’s eyes that was making his throat close up.

He nodded instead. “Okay.”

That dark, fathomless gaze fixed upon him again. Then Burr picked up the first page of his draft of the opening argument. And crushed it in his fist.

“Hey!” Alexander lunged forward. “What the hell are you doing?”

“If you’re taking the opening,” Burr said, in the same quiet, oddly dangerous voice. “You’re not going to say something that’d give Jefferson the chance to laugh us out of court.”

Alexander stared. “What?”

“There is no way that Jefferson will be arguing that the contract is invalid because of the immorality of BDSM,” Burr continued. “He’s not going to talk about the contract at all.”

“That’s _ridiculous_ ,” he protested immediately. “Jefferson always goes straight into talking about principles.”

Ever since that discussion he had with Burr on that rather significant day, Alexander had been doing his research. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t because of what Burr said, that it was simply logical for him to do such a thing because he was the defence counsel, but…

Anyway. According to the research he had done on Jefferson – mostly the transcripts of the man’s past cases – there was a very clear pattern from what Alexander _could_ find: most of the time, Jefferson relied on pretty turns of phrases and arguments based on principles. Which was fucking hilarious. As funny as Jefferson’s incredibly huge house where he lived alone, his multiple cars, his branded _everything_ , and his wealth arising mostly from his and his dead wife’s inheritances… none of which meshed with the public’s adoration of him as a philanthropist and champion of the working classes. 

Everything Alexander had read confirmed his first impression of the man: the man who talked about the rights of the poor while dressed in clothes that cost more than most people’s annual salaries was nothing more than a bastard. 

Plus, he was a southerner. Most of them were the same. The only exception was Laurens. Oh, and Washington.

“Not with this case,” Burr was saying, shaking his head. “Madison won’t let him do it even if it crosses his mind.” 

Alexander blinked. He knew that his old debate partner – the man who was stick-thin and fragile-looking in his first year and ended up being nearly three times Alexander’s width by the time of graduation – gained the position of a Judge last year. And that he knew Jefferson somehow, because they had moved to New York together. But…

“What does Madison have to do with anything?”

Burr stared at him. Then he _laughed_ – a huff of a breath, but clearly a laugh – and ran a hand over his head. “You don’t listen to the grapevine, do you,” he stated.

“I don’t have time for idle gossip,” Alexander snapped out.

“That idle gossip is exactly what will let you figure out how someone thinks,” Burr said, tone returning to being entirely mild. “Within the various interpretations of a person’s character is a seed of truth about what they’re really like.”

Then, before Alexander could argue, he held up a hand.

“Nothing, absolutely _nothing,_ Jefferson says in the courtroom is something that Madison hasn’t heard,” Burr continued. “And vice versa back when Madison was still on defence. It’s not a coincidence that the two of them never went against each other for a case: Madison refused every single one that was assigned to Jefferson. When Madison’s name was nominated for his current position, it was Jefferson’s work.”

He smiled. “There’s even a rumour that it’s written in some contract that Madison would never be assigned as judge to any of Jefferson’s cases.”

Something didn’t make sense. Burr gave him a list of facts; things that he could have heard. But none of that explained his absolute certainty. 

“How… do you know this?” Alexander asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Unlike you, I go out,” Burr said. “I listen.”

None of that explained _Madison wouldn’t_ let _him_.

Alexander leaned in. “What else have you heard?”

“That’s most of it,” Burr shrugged. “The grapevine calls them the clownfish and the anemone, but I don’t suppose metaphors are something you’re interested in.”

If there was anything Alexander had learned about Burr in the past few months, it was that he was very careful with his choice of words. Not only in the courtroom, not only in the club, but everywhere. Burr’s words were always incisive; surgically precise.

 _Madison wouldn’t_ let _him_. An anemone couldn’t control a clownfish. No, it didn’t add up.

Burr knew something about Jefferson that he wasn’t telling Alexander. That he was baldly lying to Alexander’s face in order to cover up his knowledge. Alexander linked his fingers together, slowly.

What was it? And _why_ was Burr trying to hide it from him? Jefferson was their opponent, their _enemy_ who was trying to put an innocent man in jail for a crime he hadn’t committed; Jefferson was a man whose hypocrisy was so rank that Alexander nearly threw up in his mouth when he was doing his research on him.

Was it because of Madison? They were all in college at the same time, along with… some people whom Alexander immediately stopped himself from thinking about. But Burr trying to protect Madison and keep his secrets didn’t make sense. Hell, Burr trying to protect _anyone_ didn’t make sense.

Except Sarah and Theo. Maybe.

He let out a breath through his teeth. “What do you think Jefferson’s opening argument would be, then?”

Burr cocked his head. He studied Alexander’s face for a long moment. Alexander shoved his suspicions to the corner of his mind so they would not show in his eyes.

“That the contract doesn’t matter,” Burr told him. “That the case should be treated like any other homicide case, with arguments based upon possible motives and witness accounts.”

No. No, that didn’t make sense. Alexander might not have the sources of gossip Burr had, but he had looked up as much as he could. Jefferson thrived on controversies and legal uncertainties. For him to completely erase the one contentious part of the case to take the safe route was…

“How sure are you about this?” he asked.

“Quite.”

“Give me a percentage.”

Burr smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “Hundred.”

If Alexander hadn’t already been sure that Burr knew something, he was now. The suspicion had changed from a formless cloud to solid rock.

Reaching out, he plucked the crumpled piece of paper from Burr’s hand, smoothing it out. He didn’t look into those dark eyes.

“I’ll write another draft,” he said. “But I’ll keep this one as well. In case you’re wrong.”

“That’s fine,” Burr said. “Do you want me to look that second one over?”

Alexander lifted his eyes. He plastered a smile on his face. “Sure,” he said. “This was your idea, after all.”

“Okay,” Burr said. His eyes turned towards the window. Alexander busied himself with grabbing a piece of paper and scribbling down the main ideas of what Burr had told him. Only what Burr had told him, and not what he had revealed.

“It’s almost time for dinner,” Burr said. Alexander made a distracted sound of assent.

“Do you want to head to Richmond Hill with me?”

“Fuck!” Alexander yelped as his hand jerked, pen nib tearing a ragged line through the paper. He looked up, gaping at Burr. “ _What_?”

“My daughter said that I should invite you back for dinner someday,” Burr said, his tone back to mild neutrality. “Unless you have something else planned?”

Burr knew perfectly well that Alexander had nothing in his life except for his work. He continued to half-stare, half-gape at the man. Burr waited him out. His gaze was fucking unnerving.

Swallowing, Alexander nodded spasmodically. “Yeah,” he said, forcing the words out of a dry throat. “Sure. Dinner with you guys is probably better than takeout.”

“It’s takeout,” Burr told him. Was that a bloody _twitch_ at the corner of his mouth? “But it’s going to be on proper plates and with proper utensils, and on a table instead of the couch. A bit of a change, at least.”

“Well,” Alexander said. He shrugged, and then went back to writing notes. Or attempting to write them. He wasn’t very sure what words he was putting on paper. “Free food. Why would I refuse?”

“Alright,” Burr said. He fell silent. Alexander finished up his notes, and tried to not glance up too often.

Dinner. With Burr and Sarah and Theo. With Burr’s _family_ , in Burr’s _house_ , when Alexander had been so damned sure that Burr wanted to come to his Inwood apartment because he didn’t want Alexander anywhere near Richmond Hill. Burr invited him to have dinner in his _home_ right after he deliberately hid something that was probably pretty big and important from Alexander.

What the hell?

“I’m done,” he said. Folding the piece of paper – careful to hide the torn line – he gathered the rest of the notes and shoved them all back into the file. He looked up to Burr. “Offer still open?”

At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Burr had changed his mind within the last five minutes.

“Of course,” Burr said, as if there could be no other answer; as if what he was doing was entirely normal. Alexander opened his mouth. Then he closed it. He went to change to something more presentable.

Nothing made any _fucking_ sense.

***

 _March 12, Saturday_

“You know, I should stop going on benders,” Jefferson said as he stepped into the living room. “I think I’m actively losing brain cells.”

James looked up from the papers he was reading. Jefferson stood there, leaning against the doorway of the living room with his arms crossed. He was smiling as if at a joke only he was privy to. It would be familiar except Jefferson wasn’t dressed in his usual bathrobe, but in a pair of jeans that were old and a little too loose on him, and a baggy Christmas hoodie that he’d received at some kind of party years ago and which he’d sworn never to wear. His glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. 

“What do you mean?” James asked, careful to strip his voice off of any possible emotion.

“I can’t remember even reaching for the bottle this time,” Jefferson said. He straightened up, walking over to the seat opposite James and flopping himself down. “Was I celebrating something again?”

“Completing your new draft of the opening argument,” James said, waving the sheaf of paper at his best friend; the one he had found on Jefferson’s desk and was editing through. “Or, well, that’s what I assumed. You were snoring up a storm in bed and it was right there in your study when I came in.”

“Oh,” Jefferson blinked. “Why… did you come over?”

“You called me at some point in the early afternoon,” James said. “And then you babbled something about being awesome and hung up. I came over because I was curious.”

“Hah,” Jefferson said. “I don’t remember that. Sounds like something I would’ve done, though.”

So he wasn’t going to call James out on his blatant lies this time. James shoved down whatever it was that he felt about it without even letting his mind label the emotions.

“Hungover?” James asked.

Shrugging, Jefferson hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He pulled the hood up until it was covering his hair. It made him look oddly small and vulnerable. James pushed down his instinctive reactions to that, too.

“Not really,” he said. “Head hurts a bit, but that’s all.” He lifted his eyes, and gave James a wry smile. “Looks like all the nagging you did actually worked, huh? I now remember to drink water whenever I’m on a bender.”  
_  
Would you stop going on benders if I were to order you to instead of just nagging?_ No. No, he couldn’t say that.

“Did work become less busy?” Jefferson asked. He was toying with the edge of his hood with his fingers. 

“Yeah,” James said softly. “Things worked out fine.” He wondered if Jefferson remembered what he had said himself once: that James would drop everything just to come to see him, if that was what Jefferson wanted. He wondered if Jefferson let himself to even allow that truth to edge into his mind.

Likely not. There was no one who was better at self-blindness than Jefferson. Not with James encouraging him.

“Anyway,” he said, pushing away his thoughts. They didn’t matter. This was how Jefferson would rather they play things out, and so they would. “Do you want to discuss your opening statement?”

Jefferson blinked. He stared at the paper in James’s hands as if he had never seen paper before. Then he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. Back and forth, back and forth, his lips turning redder and redder with every swipe. James clenched his hand tightly around his own thigh, inhaling cool air through his teeth. He put down the fire threatening to ignite around him again.

“We can do that after dinner,” he offered when Jefferson stopped rubbing his mouth and started staring at his own hands, still without saying a word. “I don’t think you’ve had anything but alcohol for most of the day.”

More silence. James put down the papers. He made his footsteps as loud as he could on the carpeted floors, but Jefferson didn’t move.

“Thomas,” he murmured. Cautiously, he allowed his hand to brush over Jefferson’s shoulder. “Thomas. Hey.”

Still nothing. James considered his options. With the same amount of care as before, he scraped his nail over Jefferson’s jaw, running over his newly-trimmed beard.

A sound. Soft, practically a rumble in his throat. A _purr_. Jefferson turned his head, and nuzzled his cheek over James’s hand.

James’s breath caught in his throat. He shuddered from the tidal wave of sheer _heat_ that crashed over his body. His hand dropped from Jefferson’s hair to his shoulder, and he squeezed the muscle there as hard as he could. 

Dark eyes met his as Jefferson tilted his head up. Those full, plush lips were parted, and Jefferson’s breathing was ragged now. Half-mast lids, shadows of lashes in dark slashes over his cut-glass cheeks. God. He was so beautiful. And so needy. 

What would Jefferson do if he pushed him down to the couch? What would he do if James yanked off that ugly sweater, if he kissed every inch of his skin? How would he react if James pinned him down and folded his long, endless legs up? What would his voice sound like if James fucked him right now; took him until he screamed his name and his eyes were bright and focused again?

No. That should be: What would he sound like if James fucked him right now; took him _like he wanted to right now_?

Heat. So much heat. James’s nerves tangled together, his thoughts caught in twisting snarls. His hand trembled.

“Thomas,” he said again. His voice didn’t sound like his own. He hadn’t realised he could sound so hoarse. His throat was full.

Taking a step back, James grabbed Jefferson by his elbows. The other man fell forward, loose-limbed, doll-like. He had barely lasted an hour, including the shower, since he woke up. So incredibly, terribly needy. James swallowed down the urge to kiss him, instead picking him up in his arms again.

He carried Jefferson to the kitchen. The servants had all been told to not come in today; they were alone in the house. James deposited Jefferson on a chair, leaning him against the wall, before he grabbed a mug and filled it with cold water.

Then he upended the thing over Jefferson’s face.  
_  
A proper opponent in eighteen days._ Seventeen now. James held onto the thought as he watched Jefferson start to cough and sputter. He headed for the bathroom, grabbing a towel. Along the way, he switched on the microwave to heat up the food he had made earlier in the day.

When he came back to the kitchen, Jefferson was shaking his head hard. His fingers were tangled tight in his silver chain again, trying to strangle himself on it. James stood at the doorway and watched as he started to shake. He waited until the microwave chimed before he stepped back into the kitchen.

“How the fuck did I manage to fall asleep,” Jefferson said. “Guess I’m more hungover than I thought, huh?”

Once, James had thought all he had to do was to wait Jefferson out. Eventually all of the lies he built around himself would reach all the way to the skies, and fall like the Tower of Babel. He knew now that he had underestimated the foundations. 

Funny thing: he had known Jefferson for nearly twenty years, and the man never stopped surprising him.

“I think you’re just really tired,” he said softly. “You pulled an all-nighter, after all.”

“You didn’t have to pour water over my head,” Jefferson said, voice muffled beneath the towel. He lowered it, and gave James a glare that was utterly unconvincing even without his half-hearted grin. “You can just call my name a couple of times and I will wake up.”

“But that’s not nearly as much fun,” James said. He grabbed a nearby cloth – having given up the oven mitt for the ghost when he was here a couple of hours ago – and took out the large bowl from the microwave. The smell of cheese permeated the room. He could feel Jefferson’s eyes on him as he grabbed a couple more bowls and utensils before turning around and putting it all on the table.

“From the new place downtown that you liked,” he said. The place he had brought Jefferson when this strange nightmare-dream had first begun. “It probably doesn’t taste as good now as it did when I bought it, but you need to eat.”

Jefferson blinked. He draped the towel over his head like a second layer to the hood he had pulled back up at some point. His lips twitched into a grin that actually looked sincere.

“You spoil me,” he said, and picked up a fork.

Foundations. Or was it determination? Maybe the two were the same, when it came to this man. James shoved pieces of macaroni into his mouth without really tasting them.

“What were we talking about before I dozed off?” Jefferson said once they finished eating in silence. 

“Your opening statement,” James said, watching him carefully even as he dumped the bowls into the sink for the servants to clean up when they came to the house. Whenever it was that they would be asked to come back. “I finished reading it.”

“Oh,” Jefferson said. His eyes darted to the side, staring at the wall. But they were still bright, still focused, and James shoved his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t reach out to touch the edges of them as they headed back into the living room.

“What do you think about it?” 

“Well,” James said, taking his previous spot on the couch again. “Focusing Franklin and the jury’s attention back upon the fact that it’s a homicide case is a good stance to take, especially with the media’s main talking points being about the contract between Sands and Weeks.”

“There’s a ‘but’ there,” Jefferson said. He slouched on the couch, stretching his legs out. James carefully moved his foot.

“There is,” James nodded. “You _have_ to address the contract, Thomas. It’s the crux of the whole case.” _It’s the reason why you even took the case in the first place_ , he deliberately did not say. “Neither Burr nor Hamilton will let you proceed with the case like it’s a standard homicide.”

Jefferson paused. He took a deep breath; James tried to not watch too intently the way his chest expanded and relaxed. Then he grabbed for the paper and started looking around the table. James handed him a pen before he could stand up.

“Okay,” Jefferson said, pen now poised over the blank back of one printed sheet. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Here,” James said. He took the case file, flipping until he found Monroe’s second report. “You have every single text that Weeks ever sent Sands, and vice versa. I read them all as well, and they are…” he paused, seeking for the right word. “Disturbing,” he decided.

Jefferson wasn’t writing anything down. James took a breath, and the plunge.

“Call for a linguistic analyst,” he said softly. “Say that there is no way that Sands could possibly consent, contract or not, because Weeks held too much power over him. Even without the contract, Weeks is incredibly manipulative within those texts. Point out the age difference between them. Point out the difference in life experiences, especially since Weeks was Sands’s first Dom,” he noted almost dispassionately the way Jefferson twitched at the word, “ _and_ his male lover.”

He took a deep breath. Pushed away the urge to stare at his hands, instead fixing his eyes on Jefferson. Whose knuckles were turning white wrapped around Madison’s pen.

“The contract cannot stand up legally. The very nature of it ensures its invalidity. As Sands’s Dom,” another twitch, “Weeks could have manipulated Sands into it. Sands might have been ordered to sign the contract while they were in the midst of a scene. He might have been coaxed into signing the thing while he wasn’t entirely cognizant of himself. As the contract was signed without witnesses, the only word we have is Weeks’s, and Weeks clearly has a vested interest so his testimony could not be trusted.”

James stopped talking. He didn’t move, frozen in his position of leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Jefferson squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s,” he started. His voice was barely more than a croak. “That’s a good idea.”

“There’s a ‘but’ there,” James said, deliberately echoing Jefferson from just a few minutes ago. Jefferson didn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t… I can’t actually argue that. It’s…” He licked his lips. When he lifted his head, his eyes were fixed upon the windows of the living room. The papers were slowly crumpling in his hands.

“Back in January,” he started, and then stopped. His hands were shaking. He dropped the papers and pen onto the table. “In January, I went to Sands’s funeral. I met… I met his younger sister Kalessin, and she said something that… that won’t leave my head.”

He licked his lips. James gripped his own wrist, and drove his nail between the bones.

“She said… she said that Sands was under a lot of pressure. There was so much expected of him, so much that he had to… he had to live up to.” He shuddered. “And she said… With Weeks, Sands could just… he could just _be_.”

Long legs drew up to knees. Knees tucked under chin. Jefferson ripped off his glasses and dropped them with a loud clatter on the table. He huddled there on the couch, pressing himself smaller and smaller. Like a scared child.

James’s heart was threatening to tear itself out of his chest again. All of the knots and tangles had gathered there, filling up the space within, squeezing the air out of him. He pushed his nail deeper into his wrist.

“Don’t you think there’s something beautiful in that?” Jefferson asked his own knees. “I’m going to ask the Sands family in as witnesses, you know. Wouldn’t it be… be unethical for me to argue on the vein you suggested? It can’t be right for me to twist their answers into that particular argument.”

He shook his head minutely, and shoved his head into the small space between chest and thighs. His hands were tangled up in the soft denim of those old, too-large jeans.

“Is it really so hard to believe that Sands would sign the contract of his own will? If Weeks offered to let him… to let him fly,” James’s breath stopped in his throat, “fly far away from all of his responsibilities, all of his tangled thoughts, all of the contradictions that tied up the world and made it so difficult to breathe… Then why wouldn’t Sands have agreed? Why wouldn’t Sands have trusted him enough to put his entire life into his hands?”

“But Weeks killed him,” James said, voice carefully measured and low.

“That doesn’t…” Jefferson’s shoulders shook. “I think Sands would’ve seen that as an acceptable risk. All wings are made of wax in the end. Anyone who flies might become Icarus from the sun’s whims. But isn’t… isn’t the moment where you catch sight of the skies beyond the clouds worth the fall into the ocean?”

Another shuddering breath. “I think Sands would’ve believed that.”

James had heard enough. He stood up from the couch. The sound of his footsteps echoed around the room as he walked around the table.

Jefferson looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. Madison carefully did not touch him. Not yet.

“Are we still talking about Elric Sands,” he started, voice murmur-quiet and deep, “or are we now talking about Thomas Jefferson?”

 _Oh_. The way Jefferson’s eyes darkened at those words. He had been chewing on his bottom lip, and it was red again. Wet with his breath escaping through his lungs as he stared at James, completely unmoving.

Slowly, James reached out. He shoved the towel away, and pushed the hood back. Jefferson’s hair was still wet, but it didn’t matter. He sank his fingers into the strands, moving down until he was cupping the back of Jefferson’s neck. His thumb shifted, bypassing the silver chain until he was stroking the side of that long, slender throat.

“James,” Jefferson breathed.

It was the same. The location. The way Jefferson was looking at him. The sound of his voice. Even the heat pooling in James’s groin. Except this time James was going to control himself. He wouldn’t give into selfishness. He would tell Jefferson what he knew; unravel that terrible confusion in his blood that was turning his eyes red and his mind a wreck. He would—

The scrape of beard over his wrist, right at the aching spot between his bones. Jefferson dragged his lips over James’s palm. Long-fingered hands uncurled from denim, closed around James’s arm. Holding him close, holding him still.

“I can’t,” Jefferson said. His voice was a wreck, hoarse, syllables broken and stuttering. He had ripped himself apart and now all of his soft, raw parts were spread for James to see. “Please, James. Please.”

“What do you want, Thomas?”

“Fix this for me,” Jefferson said. His breath hitched, twisted into a sob. His hand shoved James’s against his face even harder. Tears gathered in his eyes, turning them even wider, larger. “I can’t fix this. You’ve always… you’ve always been good at fixing things.”

“That’s not for me to do,” James said, strangled. 

“Then… then…” Jefferson’s breath hitched again. The tears slipped down his face. He chased them with his tongue. His lips were so red, so full. “Help me fly. Please. Help me fly so I forget everything.”

His hand scrambled in the air for a moment before he found James’s other one. He cradled it between his fingers like it was something precious. He pressed James’s knuckles to his forehead, and then to his mouth.

“James.”

That _voice_. No matter how long James lived, he would never forget the way Thomas said his name. It was imprinted in his bones; engraved in his mind. It was inked in his throat and every breath he took tasted like the sound of his name on Thomas’s tongue.

 _Fuck_.

“Stand up,” he heard himself say; the same tone he used in a club he now suspected he would never visit again. He took a step backwards without really knowing what he was doing. He watched as Thomas stood as well, legs shaky, and he gripped onto an elbow until Thomas could find his own feet again.

Another breath. It rattled in his lungs. “Will you kneel for me, Thomas?” he asked. 

Thomas didn’t move. He had half an inch on Madison, but he was so hunched into himself at the moment that his head was tilted upwards. Seconds ticked past. There was no clock in the living room; James counted by his own too-quick heartbeat.

Then Thomas fell. Without grace, without finesse. A hard _thud_ as his knees hit the floor. He didn’t even bother to hold out his hands to catch himself; James had to scramble so Thomas didn’t end up with carpet between his teeth.

When he straightened, his posture was absolutely atrocious. He had never done this before. James would be the first. He tried to shove down the vicious triumph within himself at the thought, and didn’t succeed.

Sinking his hand into Thomas’s wet curls, he murmured, “Spread your legs before me.” He slid his hands up those strong thighs to guide him. Thomas’s skin was so warm through his jeans. His body temperature had always been higher than James’s, but he now felt hot enough to scorch.

James brushed his fingers very, very briefly over the join between thigh and hip. One, then the other. He kissed Thomas to capture his sobbing gasp, and slipped his tongue into that sweet, pliable mouth as he took Thomas’s arms. Urged them to fold at the elbow, and tucked them at the small of the back.

When he pulled away, there was a trail of spit between their mouths. Thomas leaned forward, trying to chase the line. His eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the brown irises almost entirely. James cupped his cheek, stroked his thumb over those full, plush lips. His other hand wrapped around Thomas’s body, nails running up his spine as he took that mouth again.

“Please,” Thomas whined. “Please.”

Did Thomas know what it was he was begging for? Probably not. James was beyond caring right now. He was submerged in heat, _want_ twining around his every nerve, tangling them all together until he was shuddering at the sound of Thomas’s breathing.

 _Mine_ , he thought. No, it was too soon to make his claim out loud.

“My name,” he said instead. “You can call me by my name.”

“James,” Thomas breathed out. God, he was a beautiful wreck. James brushed two fingers over that mouth again, and— 

Thomas’s lips parted, and he took the tips of them in. The swipes of his tongue were not clumsy. In that moment, James _knew_. He pulled his fingers away.

“Shh,” he soothed, stroking over the wet curls again. This time, he scraped his nails over the scalp. “Do you know what a safeword is?”

“I…” Thomas’s eyes crossed, for just a moment. Then he shook his head. “No.”

Of course not. James inhaled sharply, and pushed down the voice that threatened to speak up.

“It’s a word you use to get me to stop,” he explained, keeping his voice gentle. “If you say it, I’ll stop.”

“But,” Thomas started. He licked his lips again. _Christ_. “I trust you.”

“That’s especially why you need a safeword,” James said. He dipped his thumb over Thomas’s lips, tracing the lines of them. “You’re trusting me to stop when I say it.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay.”

“Think of one,” James said. He leaned down and kissed him again. Slow, lingering, and he placed a finger against Thomas’s mouth as he pulled back. “Keep thinking. I’ll come back in a moment. I’m not going to leave.”

After a moment, he added. “Count to ten in all the languages you know while you think. I’ll be back before you reach Greek.”

Thomas nodded. James took one more look at him, drinking in his fill, before he stood up. He headed for Thomas’s bedroom, making a beeline for the walk-in closet immediately. He grabbed a scarf and four ties, all of which Thomas wore most often, before he headed back to the living room.

“Septem, Octo, Novem,” Thomas was reciting in Latin. He stopped when he spotted James, but he didn’t move.

James couldn’t help himself: he reached out and brushed the back of his hand over Thomas’s cheek. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Such a good boy.”

Another hitch. Thomas lowered his eyes. Tears caught on long, dark lashes, shimmering gem-like in the soft light of the living room.

Taking the scarf, James covered them. He wound it twice around Thomas’s head, and tucked the ends in neatly. The ties were shoved unceremoniously into his pocket.

“Have you thought of your safeword?”

Head falling backwards, baring his throat, Thomas breathed, “Yes, James.”

“What is it?”

White teeth sunk into his bottom lip. “Wayles,” he said.

So he was right, after all. Not entirely his. Never to be entirely his. He swallowed down the sudden bitterness on the back of his throat.

“Alright,” he said. Then he leaned forward, cupping the back of Thomas’s neck again as he kissed him. Thomas arched into his touch, into his mouth, and James slipped his other hand beneath that ugly sweater. His fingers found the clasp of the chain, and he unhooked it.

Thomas made a sound. His hands left the small of his back. James pinned them back down to his sides, jerking his head back further with his hand in his hair. He pressed Thomas against the couch just as chain and ring slipped from the hoodie to clatter dully onto the carpet.

Without letting Thomas go, without pausing his claim on that mouth, James slipped his arm under Thomas’s knees. He lifted him up like that, catching another sobbing gasp with his tongue.

He carried Thomas – _his_ Thomas, _his_ boy – into the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As stated in my tags: “Sometimes a yes is not a yes.” There are so many possibilities where ‘yes’ doesn’t… actually means ‘yes’. (Is the scene between Madison and Jefferson consensual? I don’t fucking know, and I wrote the damned thing.)
> 
> By the way, Hamilton and Burr’s scene revolves a lot around Jefferson and Madison because 1) plot and 2) their respective positions in the courtroom. Like Burr said in Chapter 5, the role of the defence is to give reasonable doubt with regards to the prosecution’s arguments. (Hence the term ‘defence’.) It’s also a mirror of the Cabinet Battles – Jefferson argues; Hamilton refutes. That’s just how things go. On the flipside, Jefferson and Madison don’t talk much about Hamilton and Burr because of the above reasons and also because they are neck-deep in their own issues.
> 
> (Yes, the switch from ‘Jefferson’ to ‘Thomas’ is _entirely_ deliberate. And I’m not sorry for cutting off the scene right there. If there’s any consolation, it’s _not_ a fade-to-black. Wait for it.)


	12. screw your courage to the sticking place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up the pieces. Or shattering them further. You can see them as the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: frank discussion of class issues and a past abusive relationship that lasted years (abuser is ‘lover’ and father both). Second scene: see that ‘rape’ tag up there? It’s relevant again now. With added non-negotiated kinks, one party constantly saying no while crying, and an attempt to use a safeword and being silenced. All this in the POV of the person taking advantage.

_March 13, Sunday_

When Sally opened her eyes, she was alone in her dorm room. She had expected nothing else – Angelica was gone by the time she came back last night – but her heart twisted anyway. Ignoring the useless thing that hoped for too much, she swung her legs off of the bed. She looked at the room again. Then she stood up and headed for the bathroom.

The towel was neatly hanging over the shower door. She reached up and did what she hadn’t been brave enough to do last night: pulled it down, dumped it into the laundry hamper. Opened the cabinet behind the mirror, and took the pack of birth control. Popped a pill out of the foil and swallowed it with water. Brushed her teeth.

It was Sunday, but she still had studying to do. She had to keep her grades up. If she didn’t, then nothing she’d done would be worth anything; she would have earned nothing. She sat down behind her desk in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt she’d brought from Virginia, and opened her book. She must keep her grades up.

But the diagrams made no sense to her. She switched on her phone. No missed calls, voicemails, or even texts. The words in her textbook blurred together. She wiped her eyes and swallowed down a sob. There was no use in crying. Crying never solved anything.

Her thumb hovered over the first contact page named _Angelica_ she saw. She tapped it. London area code. The wrong one; Angelica had bought a new phone card almost the same moment she touched down inNew York. Or so she had told Sally that day when they were lying together in bed, Angelica wrapped around her and her fingers soft and gentle over her shoulders, her sides. 

Sally plugged in her earphones. Closed her eyes, and scrolled down. She hit the third speed dial.

Sunday morning. Her mother should still be at church. All she wanted was to leave a missed call. Something she could point to if Jimmy told her that she hadn’t been fulfilling her duties as a good daughter.

“So you’ve finally found the time to call your old mother, girlie?” Her mother’s familiar working-class Southern drawl. Sally’s breath hitched in her throat. She pushed away from the desk, the feet of her chair screeching on the wooden floorboards. She sat back on the bed, and drew her knees to her chest.

“Hello, Momma,” she said, slipping back into the Virginian accent she had tried so hard to excise so she wouldn’t end up singled out as that one Virginian girl in Columbia pre-med.

“Morning to you too, girlie,” Momma said. Her voice softened, and Sally heard her say something before the background noise cut off. So her mother was at church, after all, and had walked out of the service just to talk to her.

Her eyes burned.

“How’ve you been?” her mother asked. “You sound tired. You’ve been sleeping enough?”

“Yeah,” Sally said. “I just woke up.”

There was an apology on her tongue, but it was too heavy to push through her teeth.

A soft tut. “What’re you doing, sleeping so long after dawn?” Sally checked the clock – it was eleven in the morning. She bit back a hysterical laugh.

“Had a long night,” she said. 

“Partying?”

“No, Momma.” This time, she did laugh. A little wry, a little hoarse. She curled up into herself a little more, grabbing her pillow and shoving her face into it. “Just couldn’t really sleep.”

“You’ve been working too hard, girlie,” her mother scolded gently. “That summer of yours is meant for you to take a break. But you just had to take all those classes, and now you’re all tired. People ain’t meant to work for years upon years without a break, girlie.”

“Momma,” Sally said helplessly. “That’s what you did.”

“Aye,” Momma said. There was the sound of quiet shifting in the background, like feet pushing away leaves. If Sally closed her eyes, she could imagine her Momma in the garden of their small church. The one further away from Father’s Forest. They always took a bus there on Sunday mornings, especially before Robbie left for college, even though Father had a chapel right on his estate.

“I’ve worked so hard so that none of you had to,” Momma continued, obviously having settled down onto one of the benches. “But look at all of you. Working yourselves to the bone, never taking breaks. Never coming home to visit your poor old Momma who’s been left behind.”

Sally choked. She squeezed her eyes shut, and buried her face into the pillow. “Sorry,” she managed to force out. “Sorry, Momma. I wanted to come see you. I wanted to.”

“Shh, shh,” her mother murmured. Even through the phone, her voice was a physical weight, settling around Sally’s shoulders like a warm blanket. “It’s alright, girlie. I’ve got friends here, and there’s plenty for me to do. I ain’t lonely or anything.”

After Father’s death, Momma had begun to involve herself in a lot of things. She had said that it was because Robbie had gone off to college, and Jimmy would be doing the same soon also, but Sally always suspected that Father dying was like the cutting of Momma’s chains. She was free to do whatever she liked; whatever she wanted.

To be free. Sally sank her nails into her ankles. The pain was blunted by her sweats, so she pulled them up and did it again.

“Girlie,” her mother said when she didn’t reply, “are you alright?”

“Momma, I…” For a moment, Sally wanted to tell her everything. Not just about her ‘scholarship’, but about Angelica as well. Momma had never met Angelica, but Sally thought she would’ve loved her. Though she probably would have some reservations about the age difference.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to speak. What escaped her was: “Can you tell me about Father?”

Silence. Sally could hear her mother breathe. Why had she asked such a thing? Momma never told her anything about Father that she couldn’t see for herself. She didn’t want to know. She needed to know. But if knowing meant causing her mother pain, then—

“That’s a broad question, girlie,” her mother said before she could even form the first syllable of an apology between her teeth. “Which part of it you want to know?”

“You don’t need to tell me anything,” Sally said, belated and rushed. “If you don’t want to, then you don’t have to tell—”

“It’s long past time you asked,” Betty Hemings said, and she gave a laugh that sounded hollow even through the phone. “Just don’t… don’t go telling the boys, yeah?”

“I won’t,” Sally said, and there was no lie in that promise no matter how quickly she made it. “Momma, I won’t. I…” Another breath. “How did you meet him?”

Another silence. Soft breaths. The sound of leaves moving from the breeze. Spring was coming to Virginia, and the weather was turning warm. She looked outside the window, and knew that New York would be far too cold for her mother even in spring.

“He was pretty famous ‘round here, you know,” her mother started. “Your father, I mean. A black man who came from practically nowhere with a pile of money that he used to buy a farm. And he started making more money with that farm when everyone else was failing.”

A laugh. This time, it sounded genuine. It sounded fond. A chill crept down Sally’s spine.

“We met when I was working for him,” Momma continued. “He gave me the job himself, actually. I went to his chapel and asked for a job and he gave me one, working as a maid in his big house. At that time…” A huff of a breath filled with emotion Sally couldn’t identify. “I thought the world of him.”

“Why?”

“Things were different, back in the eighties,” Momma said. “He’s a rich black guy who owns a big house, a bloody plantation. It gives us bad-luck ones hope to look at him. Not just ‘cause it’s rare, but kind of like… Look at him, sticking it to the white man. Know what I mean?”

Oh. Sally stared at her knees. She never thought about things that way. Father was only ever Father. The man that Robbie called ‘bastard’ under his breath throughout her childhood; the man that Jimmy glared at beneath his lashes whenever he visited. The man who would pat her on the head whenever he came into the house, but never really bothered to talk to her.

Could she have looked at- at Jefferson that way? Look at him, the District Attorney, being the boss of white men, sticking it to them as a whole. Could she ever _think_ about him that way?

She would never forget the first time she saw his house in Westchester; the house he’d bought and spent hundreds of thousands on just because he could.

“Yeah,” she said, and bit her lip for the lie. “What happened after that?”

“He’d just divorced his third wife when I started working for him,” her mother said. “He was real nice to me, too.”

A pause. Another one of those echoing, hollow laughs.

“I’d like to think we fell in love,” Betty Hemings said, sounding less like a mother than a woman who had once thought she had found love and realised later she had instead a monster in her hands. “I’d like to think that was what happened between us. But I know… I know it wasn’t.”

“Momma,” Sally started.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Momma said, sounding like herself again. “I don’t regret any of you. If I had to do it all over again, I would. But… I knew it wasn’t love. Convenience, more like. I was there when he needed a warm body, girlie. That was all there was to it.”

“Oh,” Sally managed. Her breath was stuck in her throat. Her mother never wanted her to become like her. She never wanted…

Her eyes were burning again. She shoved her fist into her mouth so she wouldn’t sob.

“But why…” she forced out eventually, using all of her will to keep her voice calm. “Why did… why…” 

No, she couldn’t ask. She needed to know, but she _couldn’t_ ask. Tears were filling up her eyes, soaking up the pillow.

“Girlie,” her mother said, her voice infinitely gentle. “D’you really want to know? D’you promise you’ll try to understand that I love you, all of you, if I tell you?”

“I,” Sally started. She lifted her head and covered the microphone on her earphones. She sniffed loudly. She could almost predict what her mother would say. “I promise.”

There was a long pause. Then her mother said: “With Jimmy, I was stupid.” Another hollow laugh. “I still thought he loved me, even though he didn’t keep his promise to marry me after Robbie was born. I thought, maybe, it was because there were other reasons why he wasn’t marrying me, or even going out into public with me on his arm. Good reasons for keeping me a secret, for insisting that Robbie took my name instead of his.”

Sally nodded. Then she realised her mother couldn’t see it. “That’s not stupid,” she tried to protest. It sounded weak even to her own ears.

“Aye, but it was,” Momma said, laughing dully again. “But with… With…” A deep breath. “I figured how things really were a year after Jimmy was born. Jimmy was only one at the time, so he remembers nothing. But Robbie… Robbie was always smart.”

Robbie was always the one who hated Father the most; who called him ‘John’ to his face and refused to even acknowledge his paternity even though he was practically a carbon copy of the man in looks.

“We left Virginia, for a little bit. A couple’a months. I’d got a car at the time, a junk-heap thing, and I’d got money saved for food and gas for me and the boys. Even to last me ‘til I get another job, another place, I thought. I tried getting out.” Another breath. Her mother’s voice shook. 

“But you gotta understand, girlie. It was the early nineties. I had no permanent address, ain’t got much of an education, and there were two young kids with me. I couldn’t get a job no matter how far I drove from Charles City. I reached all the way to West Virginia before my money ran out.” 

“Momma,” Sally tried.

“You gotta understand,” Momma said, speaking faster now. “I hadn’t got a choice. I started in early autumn but winter came fast that year. There wasn’t enough money for food. There wasn’t enough money for gas, even. I was in the corner of West Virginia, surrounded by farms, and there were people who were kind but they weren’t many and I couldn’t… I…”

Sally wanted, more than anything, to reach through the phone line and wrap her mother into her arms. She wanted to take back her question. She wanted this conversation to have never happened.

“So I called him,” Momma said. She sounded defeated, as if talking about those dark days had dragged her through them again. “He came to get me. And we… we made a deal.”

Her mother never wanted Sally to be like her.

“It don’t matter now,” Momma said. “It don’t matter, because he’s dead and I’ve got you and I’ve got Pete and I love you both. I love you both and I love Robbie and Jimmy and you gotta understand, girlie. Sally. Sally, you gotta understand—”

“I do,” Sally said, barely able to speak. Her pillow was getting soaked, and she couldn’t hold back her sobs anymore. “I do, Momma. I do. I…”

Breathe. She had to breathe. She lifted her head, and scrubbed her hands over her eyes.

“We all know, Momma,” she said softly. “That’s why we work so hard. We want to make sure that… that you never have to do that again. We want to make you…” She couldn’t finish the last word. It stuck in her throat, a lump too much to push through. Her eyes darted around the room, and landed on the nightstand drawer.

That was something she could say. A new subject.

“Look, I’ve…” she started. “I’ve been saving up on what I’ve been getting from the scholarship and a couple of jobs I did during summer. So I’ve… I’ve got a bit of cash extra that I want to give to you. I know that it ain’t… it ain’t a good replacement for me not being there in the summer, but, Momma…”

“Girlie,” her mother cut her off. “You gotta understand. You already make me proud. You ain’t got to do nothing to do that. I’m already proud of you.”

Sally’s breath hitched.

“And I’ll always be proud of you. I’ll always love you. No matter what it is you do.”

Her mother already knew. Her lungs seized up.

“Momma,” she gasped. “Momma, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I never meant,” no that was a lie, “I knew you never wanted me to, I know, I know, but I have to. I have to I have to I _have to_ —”

“Shh,” her mother shushed, and Sally shut up immediately, teeth clicking together. 

She clawed at her pillow and brought it to her chest, squeezing her arms tight around it and wishing it was her mother. Wishing she was a child again and the only terrors she knew were thunderstorms and Father’s disapproving eyes, and her mother could always chase those away with her overwhelming embraces. She sobbed.

“I’m proud of you,” her mother said, quiet and strong. “It don't matter what I want if I can’t give it to you. It don't matter what I want if I’m hurting you with it. You’re my girl, and you’ll always be my girl. That matters more than anything else in this world.”

“Sorry,” Sally sobbed helplessly. “I’m so _sorry_ , Momma.”

“Oh, baby,” her mother said, using a nickname she hadn’t used on Sally she’d reached puberty. “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry you had to choose this way. All I’ve always wanted is for you to be happy, whatever that takes. It don't matter if it’s a man or a job or neither of those. As long as you’re happy.”

“Not a man,” Sally said, because if her mother already knew the worst part than why not this, too? “It won’t… it won’t ever be a man, Momma.”

A sharp intake of breath. Sally shoved her pillow into her mouth to stifle her crying.

“That don't matter,” her mother said eventually, voice firm. “If a woman makes you happy, then…” She stopped. Sally bit down on the pillow even harder.

“Girlie,” her mother spoke again. “If a man can’t make you happy, then what you’re doing is…” She trailed off, seemingly unable to put it into words. Sally never could either. She never tried to put that particular part into words.

“I have to,” she babbled again instead. “I have to, Momma. I have to.”

“Sally,” her mother breathed. The sound of her name, in that voice – that voice so full of pain and love and everything in between – broke whatever reserve of control she had. Pulling the pillow out, she tried to bite down on her knuckles.

The wail escaped anyway.

“Listen,” Momma said, and that firmness was back in her voice. “I’ve still got some money from the boys, yeah? I’ll fly over to New York, girlie. I’ll come stay with you for a month, or even a couple of months.”

“You don’t,” Sally fought through her closing throat to speak. “You don’t have to.”

“’Course I do, girlie,” Momma said. “’Sides, you said you have some money saved, aye? You can pay me back if that’s what matters. But I ain’t gonna stay here while you’re hurting so bad. Nothing’s going to keep me here.”

“But,” Sally tried to protest. “You have the church and your job and…”

Her mother laughed. This time, it sounded sincere, and so terribly fond. “Nothing of that means as much to me than you,” she said. “’Sides, it’s been a while since I seen Jimmy, too.”

 _Jimmy_. Christ, Jimmy. Jimmy, who didn’t know. Jimmy, who had met… who had met _him_ and still had no idea. He had no idea.

“Please don’t tell him,” Sally begged. “Please. Don’t tell him, Momma.”

“I ain’t gonna say anything to anyone without you telling me you’re okay with me saying it,” her mother reassured immediately. “But, girlie… Your brothers will still be proud of you even if they knew.”

No, they wouldn’t. They would be angry. They wouldn’t understand. Even if Momma did, they wouldn’t. Even if Momma did right now, she wouldn’t if she realised exactly what Sally had been doing. Not just the sex, but the…

She swallowed hard. “Please, Momma,” she begged. “Please don’t come over. I…. Please don’t.”

“Sally,” Momma started.

“It’d be expensive,” Sally said hurriedly. “I can’t have you in my dorm room and even hostels in New York are expensive. It... I’ll be fine, Momma. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to fly over. The money the boys sent is for you when you want to stop working, so you should save it. I’ll be fine. I really will be fine.”

Silence. Then a heavy gust of breath.

“How ‘bout next weekend?” her mother asked, voice infinitely gentle. “I’ll come over just for the weekend. It won’t be expensive ‘cause I won’t be staying long. But I wanna see you, girlie. I wanna see you and wipe away your tears. I wanna hold my baby in my arms.”

Sally choked again. There were reasons she could use to tell her mother ‘no’ again, but she could find none of them right now. They all shattered with her mother’s words, falling like powdered glass through her fingers.

“Okay,” she said, pressing her face hard into her knees. “I want… I want that too, Momma. I want that too. But just… just a weekend.”

If Momma stayed for longer, then Sally would end up spilling everything. She would end up showing Momma all of the filthy parts of her life. And no matter how much Momma loved her… Momma was a good person. She was a good enough person to continue loving with all of her heart the children fathered by a man who abused her. She was a good person who kept her head up high despite the whispers around her; good enough to stop her sons from trying to beat up people who yelled slurs to her face. 

But Sally wasn’t. She knew that. And Momma would know it too, if Sally told her everything. And she would be disappointed. She would hate her.

The thought made her sob again, harsh and scraping over the back of her throat.

Momma shushed her again. But before Sally could push past her seizing lungs to speak, Momma started to hum.

It was a familiar song. A country song, like those Momma loved to play on the radio while dragging her children to dance with her. Sally closed her eyes. She listened.

After the first verse, she hummed along too.

 _You might have heard I run with a dangerous crowd_  
_We ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud_  
_We might be laughing a bit too loud_  
_But that never hurt no one_  
_So, come on, Virginia, show me a sign_  
_Send up a signal I'll throw you the line_  
_The stained-glass curtain you're hiding behind_  
_Never lets in the sun_  
_Darling, only the good die young_  
  
***

_March 12, Saturday_

He set Thomas down on the bed. Spread him out with hands on thighs and torso, pushing away the covers.

“James,” Thomas murmured. His fingers twitched on the sheets, Egyptian cotton, three thousand thread count.

“Tell me your safeword again,” James said, because he needed the confirmation more than he needed to ease the raging firestorm in his chest.

Thomas licked his lips. “Wayles,” he said in the same low voice. “I remember.”

Running his thumb over the full bottom lip, James eased out invisible creases left by white teeth. “Good,” he said. He sank down on the bed without bothering to take off any more of his clothes – his jacket and waistcoat were long gone, abandoned somewhere in the guestroom. His hands slid underneath the baggy Christmas sweater. 

“Arms above your head.” He was careful to not make it an order, but Thomas seemed to obey instinctively without needing further prompting. James pushed the sweater over Thomas’s head, careful to not dislodge the blindfold or to mess up the hair too much. He tossed it to the side, and swung his leg over Thomas’s hips. He didn’t straddle, didn’t sit, merely held himself above the other man and scraped his nails over the sparse chest hair.

And Thomas’s back arched, just like that. His arms still remained above his head, fingers curling and uncurling. His biceps flexed. He was so beautiful that James couldn’t help but lean down and take his mouth, claiming him with his tongue even as he reached upwards and held Thomas down by his wrists. 

“You don’t have to,” Thomas said once they pulled apart to breathe. His chest was heaving, pressing against James’s with every inhale. “You don’t have to do that.”

What? James blinked. It took him only a moment more before he smiled, dipping his head down to nip at the corner of Thomas’s mouth.

“Maybe not,” he said, and nudged Thomas’s hands further up to clench around the bars of his headboard. “But you look terribly beautiful like this.”

The back of his hand brushed Thomas’s cheek. “Not that it says much. You’re always beautiful.”

Then, before Thomas could react, much less say a word, James lifted himself off of him, His nails scraped in between thin wrist bones before he let go completely. Then, making sure that Thomas wasn’t moving, he drew out one of the ties, and looped it around one wrist, then the metal board, and in between each finger, tying the hand securely to the headboard and making sure that no part of the limb would be too strained if Thomas struggled against the knot. Then he did the same to the other wrist.

“Pull,” he urged. When Thomas did, he watched as the silk strained, threads stretching slightly and parts of it glittering underneath the soft light of the bedroom. Thomas always bought the most beautiful ties, many of them multi-coloured, and now the colours splashed out, making his copper-brown skin glow.

“James,” Thomas said again, seemingly at a complete loss of words except for James’s name. He tugged on the bonds again, lips parting as he panted. “Please.”

“What do you want, Thomas?” James asked.

“I—” Thomas started, and shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Aren’t you supposed to make the decision for me?”

“No,” James said. His heart twisted in his chest. He pulled away from Thomas, moving down the mattress until his hands were splayed over Thomas’s stomach, tracing the lines of his defined abs with his blunt nails. “You have to tell me what you want, Thomas. Or I won’t do anything.”

Even as he said that, his fingers hooked beneath the waistband of Thomas’s jeans. He pulled them off the skinny hips without bothering with the buttons or the zip – they were the wrong size, or perhaps Thomas had been losing weight lately – before he shoved those off of the bed, too.

“Touch me,” Thomas said. His hips shifted on the bed, lips parted and gasping. “I don’t know. Touch me? Can you touch me?”

His cock was only half-hard, an obscene bulge tenting his underwear. James considered it for long moments, counting Thomas’s breaths and the rabbit-quick beating of his heart beneath his hand. Then, just as Thomas was about to arch, to beg for something he didn’t know if he wanted, James yanked down the last layer of cloth. He closed his hand around Thomas’s cock.

Immediately, Thomas’s hips snapped upwards, fucking James’s fist. At the same time, his body twitched, his breath choking into his throat. His lips formed _no, no, no_ , over and over again. His arms strained against the ties holding him to the headboard.

James stroked the tip of his thumb down the underside of Thomas’s erection; watched as it hardened fully, growing thick and swollen in his hand. Pulsing as he did that over and over again; as Thomas continued to writhe on the bed, trying to pull back and shove forward at the same time.

“Do you know who’s touching you?” he asked, because Thomas needed to learn more than James needed to avoid a deep-scored wound in his heart. He pumped the cock in his hand a few more times, watched as the tip of it flushed even darker. 

“Whose hand is this, Thomas?”

“Yours,” Thomas said. Still too clever by half. Still instinctively avoiding. James clicked his tongue.

”That’s not good enough,” he said, turning the heavy weight of grief in his chest into a lighter disapproval. His fingers uncurled, and he rubbed the length of Thomas’s cock over his broad palm, letting him feel the length and thickness of every finger. “Who am I?”

“It’s you,” Thomas gasped out. “James. It’s your hand. It’s you.”

“Mm.” That deserved another stroke, he decided. “What am I, then?”

“No,” Thomas said. He was starting to shake his head, mussing the curls that James had so carefully tried to keep neat. “Don’t make me… Don’t. James, don’t. Don’t.”

“What,” James said, every syllable weighted and deliberate as his hand slid down to the base of Thomas’s cock, “am I?” He punctuated each word with a light squeeze.

“You’re…” Thomas faltered. When James flicked his nail over the sensitive skin of his balls, Thomas cried out, hips arching. The muscles of his arms bulged as he strained against the ties. “No, no, don’t make me. Don’t make me, James.”

James sighed, loud and exaggerated. Thomas _sobbed_ then, a desperate sound wrung from the base of his throat. It twisted at James’s heart, but he ignored it, reaching up and pressing the fingers of his other hand over Thomas’s mouth.

Those plush lips parted immediately, taking his fingers in. Rough tongue over his knuckles, over his skin. James pressed his fingers down on that tongue down, just slightly, muffling the _no_ and _don’t_ that threatened to escape. Thomas was so eager to please, but only to get what he wanted. 

That wasn’t good enough.

Slipping his fingers out, he stroked them over Thomas’s mouth. “James,” the man whispered, the name falling from his lips like a prayer, a benediction. He threw his head back. Behind the blindfold, his eyes must be so dark. 

Down, down, all the way, careful to not let his wet fingers touch skin. Then, just when he could see Thomas’s breathing ease out slightly, he slipped a single finger inside him.

Thomas _screamed_ , wordless and inarticulate. He tried to back away, to buck James off. James removed the hand on his cock to slam down on a hip, holding Thomas down, refusing to let him move. The finger inside pushed in further, curling, seeking.

It was obvious when he found it: Thomas screamed again, his entire body twisting. “No,” he gasped out. “No, no, no, James, no, please, no, stop, stop, please, _stop_.”

Pushing down harder on that hip, James pulled out the finger. He let Thomas breathe for the briefest moment before he pushed two inside.

“ _Stop_!” Thomas’s legs kicked outwards, practically flailing, trying to buck him off. James dodged them easily, grabbing another tie from his pocket. He looped it around Thomas’s ankles, tying the knot with his teeth even as he twisted and curled his fingers even more inside the man, fucking him with them.

“No, stop, no no no no no,” Thomas babbled. “Stop, please. Stop, stop. Stop. Please. Stop. No. No no.”

Checking that the knot was secure, James closed his hand around it. He pushed Thomas’s legs back until knees touched shoulders. As he pulled his fingers out until only the first knuckles remained inside, he leaned over and kissed him, swallowing down his gasping, sobbing protests. 

Thomas’s mouth tasted of salt, the faint taste of mint drowned beneath his tears.

“Look at you,” he murmured, grasping Thomas’s cock again. It was fully hard now, wetness dripping from the tip. “You feel good from this, don’t you?” Just to emphasise his point, he shoved his fingers in as deep as he could go, making sure to scrape over that spot inside again.

Thomas choked on his own scream, twisting his entire body. But he was trapped beneath James’s, bracketed from every single side. He writhed as much as he could, trying to lift his hips away from James’s fingers.

“You want this,” James said. He pressed his thumb against the rim of Thomas’s hole, slipping it in halfway within and listened to Thomas’s wail. “You feel good from this.” His other hand stroked at the head of Thomas’s cock, collecting the pre-come there. “You _want_ this.”

“No, no,” Thomas said again, and James cut him off by pushing his wet fingertips into his mouth, forcing him to taste himself. Thomas gasped, throwing his head back, but his cheeks hollowed as he sucked instinctively, his tongue swirling over and over James’s fingertips.

When James pulled back, there was a trail of spit from Thomas’s mouth to his fingers. He wiped the saliva off on a cheek, leaving streaks that glimmered on the stubble. 

Turning his head, Thomas opened his mouth, trying to chase James’s fingers. But those weren’t the ones he should be paying attention to, were they?

“Don’t!” Thomas gasped out. The scarf around his eyes was getting wet as James curled the fingers inside him again. “Don’t. I can’t- I can’t- James, I can’t- W-”

Before the word could even begin to form, James crashed their mouths together, swallowed it in. He fucked Thomas as hard as he could with his fingers, driving into him over and over, and felt him shake beneath him and swallowed down his cries. He told himself that Thomas needed this.

“What,” he gritted out once he pulled away and regained some control over his breathing, “am I?”

“I can’t,” Thomas sobbed. “I can’t, I can’t.”

Too much at once. Smaller doses. James forced air into his lungs through his teeth. He nodded to himself. 

“Do you feel good, Thomas?” he asked, deliberately gentling his voice even as he lowered it further. “Does it feel good when I do this to you?”

Thomas shook his head. He writhed on the sheets, straining on the ties. The silk was undoubtedly ruined by now. James didn’t particularly care. He curled his fingers inside Thomas, deliberately seeking out that spot and rubbing over it insistently. “Do you feel good?” he asked again.

“ _Please_ ,” Thomas said, and twined within that single word was the sound of a part of himself starting to crack. “Please, James. Don’t make me. I can’t. I _can’t_.”

“Shh,” James soothed. He pressed a kiss into Thomas’s hand. He didn’t stop the movement of his fingers. “Do you feel good like this?”

“Stop,” Thomas sobbed. “Please stop. I can’t.”

“Flat on your back,” James said, splaying his free hand on Thomas’s stomach, sliding upwards. “With your legs spread. Tied like this, completely helpless to my mercy. My invasion.” A breath. He pressed a light, sweet kiss to the corner of Thomas’s mouth. “Do you feel good like this?”

“ _James_.” A sobbing gasp; the cracks within him deepening further with every thrust of James’s fingers. Almost, almost there.

“Listening to my voice,” James continued, now scraping his nails along the line of Thomas’s abs again. “Having my body bracket yours completely. Does it feel good?”

Dragging his fingers out of Thomas’s body, he traced the rim of his hole. He waited, counting every harsh, rasping breath that escaped Thomas’s throat.

“Yes,” Thomas said, and his voice was so soft. James turned his head, kissing a calf even as he pushed the knees to touch shoulders again. He pushed the fingers back inside.

“Louder,” he snapped out, and twisted his hand.

Thomas yelled, wordless and incoherent. James leaned over him, pushing his legs down by the sheer weight of his body.

“I said, _louder_.”

Another whisper, torn out of Thomas’s throat. James looked at the tears-soaked blindfold. He scraped his nails over the side and down Thomas’s cheek, sinking his nail into the spot right beneath the jaw. When Thomas’s body jerked, his fingers curled, rubbing against that spot even harder than he did before.

“Come now,” he said, letting a note of impatience slip into his voice. “ _Louder_!”

“Yes!” Thomas screamed. The sound of his voice echoed in the room. “Yes. Yes, it feels good. It feels so good. James. I need to- James. James, _please_ —”

His other hand slipped into those thick curls and clenched around the strands. He pulled Thomas’s head backwards until his throat was bared. 

“Be _honest_ , Thomas,” he said, twisting his voice even harsher than before. His hand clenched tighter on the strands when Thomas tried to shake his head. “Answer me properly!”

“It feels _good_ ,” Thomas gasped out. There, right there in the tremulous note of his voice, was a part of Thomas that had just shattered irrevocably. James wasn’t sure entirely what it _was_. 

Perhaps it was a dam, because now words were pouring out from that red, red mouth: “It feels good, all of it. Here. With you. Your fingers. Your hand on my cock. _Your_ fingers. _Your_ hand. Yours, James. All yours. It feels so good.” He stopped himself, practically choking on his own voice. 

And started to shake his head again. “But it _shouldn’t_.”

James closed his eyes. Just a moment, he told himself. He just needed a moment. That was enough. Even though he wanted nothing more than to drop his head onto Thomas’s chest, to stop this entirely and gather him into his arms, Thomas didn’t need that right now. So this… this had to be enough.

Another breath through his teeth.

“It feels good,” he said, making very sure that his voice remained calm. He stroked Thomas’s insides to prove it, and received a soft, wrenching sob in the process. “It feels good, and it harms no one, Thomas.”

“No,” Thomas said. He was shaking now, his entire body wreaked with it. His knuckles were white from how hard they were clenched over the metal bars of his headboard. “No, no. It shouldn’t feel good. It’s not _right_. It’s not…”

Leaning in, James kissed him again; took his mouth again. He drew out the whine from Thomas’s throat with his tongue swiping over those lips, drew it into his lungs and kept it safe in his heart.

“What right does the world have to this?” he asked once he pulled back. “What right does the world have to judge what we do away from its eyes?”

“But,” Thomas started. No, he didn’t think this route would work. But he had to try it before he took the one he preferred. If only because that was what he preferred.

Clenching his hand into those rich curls again, James tugged hard on the strands. He killed the other protests halfway to formation. 

“There’s no one here right now,” he continued. “No one will ever have to know this, Thomas. They will never see this, and so it’s not any of their concern.”

“That’s not…” Thomas faltered. “I can’t, I… James, we… I…”

A man famous for his eloquence, rendered entirely speechless. James couldn’t help but kiss him again. Even if nothing else of Thomas could belong to him wholly, he still had _this_.

“This is your world,” he said, pushing himself even further forward until his forehead leaned against Thomas’s. “The entirety of it. Here, surrounded and bracketed by me. I’m the frame of your entire world.”

“James,” Thomas breathed.

“Shhh,” James hushed him. He moved the fingers inside Thomas again, fucking him slowly and gently with them, and swallowed down the stuttering cry. “Surrounded and bracketed and invaded by me. What right does the world have to you when it is not _your_ world? When _I’m_ the whole of yours?”

“No,” Thomas said. His voice was weak.

Taking another deep breath, James brushed his mouth over Thomas’s. Just the lightest touch. When he spoke again, he allowed all of the fire he had felt burning inside him for the past weeks, all of the possessiveness he had felt for this man and never acknowledged until today.

“ _Mine_.” 

He splayed his hand over Thomas’s heart, pushing him down further into the mattress as he kissed him again.

“The rules of the world aren’t yours anymore,” he said. “Whatever laws that you thought applied don’t anymore. There’s no world for you except for me, Thomas.” His nails sank into skin; he dragged them down, leaving trails of red in their wake. “You follow no rules but the ones I give to you.”

Thomas sobbed. The scarf around his eyes was so soaked that the tears were seeping past it down his cheeks. James leaned forward, and kissed them away.

“And there is only one rule I give to you,” he murmured. “You obey me. If I say that this is good, if I say that there’s nothing wrong, then nothing is. Do you understand me, Thomas?”

Only a hummingbird-rapid pants answered him. James slipped his hand out of Thomas’s hair, closing around his throat instead. “Answer me,” he said.

“Yes,” Thomas said, arching towards his touch. “The world is not mine, because I do not belong to it. I belong to you. Just you. Only you, James. Only your rules matter.”

It seemed almost too easy. James shifted, distracting Thomas with a few more pumps of his fingers inside him as he slipped off the blindfold.

Dark eyes met his. Red-rimmed, bright with tears. Glazed over slightly with pleasure as gasps escaped those swollen lips, but entirely clear as they focused on James. 

Still, James had to be sure. He cupped Thomas’s face, stroking his thumb over the stubbled cheek, following the line of his jaw to his mouth again.

“Who do you belong to?” he asked. “Whose rules do you follow?”

Thomas closed his eyes. James tightened his grip, fingers pressing against bone. “Look at me when you answer,” he said.

Slowly, those eyes fluttered open again. Lucid; focused. Good.

“You,” Thomas breathed. “Yours. Only those, and nothing else.”

There, behind Thomas’s eyes: another part of him shattering into powder. The pieces made his dilated pupils glimmer like stars. Even broken, he was so beautiful. James would put him back together again. He _would_ , he told himself.

He kept those thoughts away from his face, his gaze. He stroked Thomas’s cheek with the back of his hand, the thumb of his other one circling the rim of his entrance again. He watched as Thomas’s lashes fluttered, and kissed him to swallow down the rasping gasp.

“What am I?” he asked. Surely…

Thomas didn’t answer immediately. He laid there, cheek pressed against the mattress. But he didn’t close his eyes when he said, “A man.” His throat bobbed, but his gaze turned towards James. “The Dom I belong to.”

Not entirely right. But they would get there eventually. There was no use in bothering Thomas with complexities now; not when he was so fragile. James pressed their lips together, and took his mouth as a physical confirmation of the claim.

“Good boy,” he breathed once he pulled again. “Such a good boy, my Thomas. My sweet, beautiful boy.”

Slowly, his hand slipped down Thomas’s body. He flicked one nipple, then the other, with his thumb. He watched as those heavy lashes trembled, splashing dark shadows across his cheeks. He slipped his hand beneath the long legs, scraped his nails over Thomas’s stomach, then the juncture between his hip and thigh.

Then, as Thomas closed his eyes, James’s pressed his lips to his throat, right above his roaring pulse. His hand closed around Thomas’s cock, and he bit down on the skin as he felt the whine uncoiling from his lungs.

“Such a good boy,” he said again. “Good boys deserve rewards. Let me make you feel good.”

“Yes,” Thomas said. He arched his back. His legs twitched, the tie keeping his ankles together straining. James undid the knot with his teeth, and felt Thomas’s cock twitch as he watched him.

Pulling his fingers out of the warmth of Thomas’s body, he splayed both hands upon those strong thighs. “Spread your legs for me,” he murmured. When Thomas did, James folded his knees to his chest again.

This time, he didn’t kiss him. He moved downwards, lavishing kisses on Thomas’s skin. And though it had been a long time since he had done this, since he had any _desire_ to do this, it was easy enough to open his mouth and take Thomas’s cock within.

He sucked once, listening to Thomas cry out sharply. Then he pulled back, suckling lightly on the head before he let it fall from his lips.

“Pay attention,” he said. He waited until Thomas nodded, and turned his head. He spat into his hand, and spread it onto three of his fingers.

Then he pushed them all inside Thomas, and took his cock into his mouth. 

Immediately, Thomas cried out, his hips thrusting hard. James pulled off instinctively before he could choke, his free hand slamming his boy back onto the mattress. 

“James,” Thomas whined. “James, James, _please_.”

Lifting his head up, James caught those dark eyes. “Have some control,” he said, keeping his voice gentle and cajoling. Sternness could wait; Thomas had gone through a lot in a very short time.

“But,” Thomas said. “This is a reward. Please, James.” He sank his teeth into his bottom lip, and _oh_ , his eyes were so wide now. “Can’t I… Please?”

Was Thomas doing this on _purpose_? No, he couldn’t be. He didn’t even know how to beg properly. This was... 

_Christ_. James’s groin felt as if it was on _fire_.

Shaking his head, he turned his head and sucked on Thomas’s thigh. He pressed harder on the hip when Thomas tried to buck up. He slipped the fingers out.

“ _Patience_ ,” he practically snapping out. “Don’t you remember what you just agreed to?”

“I obey your rules,” Thomas said immediately, because he had always been a fast learner. “No rules other than yours.”

“Good boy,” James said. He bit down on the same spot again, and grinned against the skin at Thomas’s stuttering gasp. “Now, what did I say?”

Thomas’s lip stuck out even more. He lowered his eyes, and turned his head away. “Control,” he muttered under his breath. 

“And?”

“Patience,” he said with even more reluctance.

James dug his nail over the bite mark; felt the muscle jump under his hand. “So are you going to obey, Thomas?”

He waited while Thomas chewed on his lip. His mouth was so red that it was practically _obscene_. James felt his cock twitch beneath two layers of cloth, and he hurriedly shoved down the instinctive shiver that wanted to take over him entirely.

“Well?”

“Okay,” Thomas said. “I’ll…” He paused. “I’ll try.”

Well, James couldn’t ask for anything more than that. Thomas learned quickly, but this was incredibly new to him. He shoved away, too, the thought that it wasn’t _entirely_ new. 

Thomas was his now. Only his; wholly his. Nothing else mattered. The chain and the ring could stay where they were, outside this room, outside this world they built with their promises.

Nodding, he ducked his head down again. His fingers were dry again, so he spat once more on them before slipping them inside. Parting his lips, he took the head of Thomas’s cock into his mouth even as he twisted his wrist, brushing the tips of his fingers over that spot inside.

Bitterness slid down his throat. He breathed in Thomas’s sharp cry; soaked in the way his hips trembled but didn’t move. He _wanted_.

Not yet.

It didn’t take very long. Thomas’s nerves were too raw; he had been teased too long.

“James, James, I’m going to, I’m,” he stuttered out. James hummed, sliding down further until his nose was buried in thick curls, inhaling the scent of Thomas’s sweat and arousal. He fucked Thomas harder with his fingers, slipping his thumb inside the stretched rim with every push inwards.

Thomas’s hips shuddered under his hand. “Please,” his boy whimpered. “Please, please, I’m so— I’m going to—”

Opening his mouth, James licked a long stripe from the base of Thomas’s cock upwards, swirling his tongue around the head.

“Come for me, boy,” he said, and rubbed insistently at Thomas’s prostate with his fingers.

He kept his eyes on Thomas’s face as much as he could. He watched as he came with a cry, his back forming a perfect arch as his hips lifted off of the bed. His hair was a mess, falling all over the scarf, the black curls a stark contrast with the bright fabric. His hole clenched tight over James’s fingers, twitching around them, and James couldn’t help but nudge over that spot again a few more times even as he swallowed down heavy salt.

Slowly, Thomas fell back down onto the bed. James sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, before his boy could catch his breath, he was leaning forward, elbows on the mattress as he crushed their mouths together, slipping his tongue into Thomas’s mouth, forcing his boy to taste himself.

When Thomas’s breathing started to grow shallow, James pulled back. He stroked his thumb over that abused mouth, then slid downwards until he was pressing it against Thomas’s neck. He closed his fingers around the slim column, soothing with light strokes as he felt Thomas fight back the urge to gag.

“Shh,” he said. “Shh. It’s alright.”

There were tears on the insides of those eyes. It would take time for Thomas to get used to this, James knew. He turned his head, kissing him again, making him taste himself until his throat stopped seizing beneath James’s hand.

“Come now,” he said, pulling back. Thomas looked at him with glazed-over eyes. He wasn’t close to flying yet. He couldn’t be expected to, really, no matter what he asked; James pushed down that coiling knot of disappointment further down his throat.

Unknotting the ties, he urged Thomas to sit up. Thomas followed him, panting hard, leaning against James’s arm. He nudged Thomas off the bed, and caught him by the underside of his arms before he could fall and smack his face onto the edge of the bed. When those eyes turned towards him, James smiled, cupping his boy’s beloved face with a hand before he swung his legs around his head.

“Here,” he murmured. “Look at what you’ve done to me.”

Thomas leaned in, guided by James’s hand. His lax, parted lips brushed over the bulge in James’s trousers; his hot breath seeped through the layers to curl around his cock. James threw his head back, and groaned.

“James,” Thomas whispered. “Please. Please.”

This time, James was absolutely sure what he was asking for. He nodded, and helped Thomas get his weak, tremulous arms up to his own thighs. He laid his fingers over the slimmer, longer ones, helping Thomas unbutton his slacks and pull down his underwear.

His cock was swollen to full girth, a physical ache between his legs. Thomas shuddered at the sight, turning away.

Of course. He still needed time.

“It’s alright,” James assured him. He grabbed the scarf from where it had fallen on the bed, and wrapped the cloth once more around Thomas’s eyes, taking care that it was the dry part that touched skin. Thomas’s breathing eased out immediately; James stroked through his hair.

“Open your mouth, darlin’,” he said, the endearment slipping out without his calling for it. Thomas shuddered, but his lips fell open even further. James nudged the bottom one open with a thumb. “Put your teeth behind your lips. Draw them back, and keep them that way.”

Thomas obeyed. _God_ , he obeyed so well, so beautifully. His mouth was still open. James kept his head steady, and guided his cock inside.

Warmth. Warmth enveloping him entirely. Thomas made a sound; before he could try to pull away, James’s hand landed on his shoulder, keeping him where he was. He tightened his control over himself even further – as much as he could at this point anyway – and thrust his hips forward even more. Felt the head of his cock nudge the back of Thomas’s throat; felt it spasm.

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructed. “Relax your throat for me. That’s a good boy.”

Even though his movements were restricted, Thomas nodded. His breathing started to even out. His throat went from seizing to fluttering.

“Good boy,” James repeated. He pushed forward, just a little more, and felt Thomas’s throat tighten around the head of his cock.

Only for a moment, before he could feel his boy give a full-body jerk. Immediately, he pulled back. The hand on Thomas’s shoulder shifted to his neck, stroking over his throat, pressing lightly over the hollow. When he pushed in again, he could feel his cock right there, separated from his thumb by layers of skin and muscle.

Dropping his head back, he let the fire escape from beneath his skin. Not too much, still careful with every thrust he made, but enough of it so he would not be entirely devoured. He kept his hand on Thomas’s hair and neck, keeping his head still as James used his mouth and throat to urge himself closer and closer to a climax that meant more to him and which he wanted more than any other he had ever had.

“My boy,” he breathed, eyes falling close. “You can tell me if you feel good, Thomas. Show me that you feel good.”

The barest hint of a nod. Thomas’s head tilted towards him, cheek nuzzling against James’s wrist as he kept his throat open for him to fuck into. James was close; he had never been so close so quickly before. But Thomas’s mouth was so open, so pliant, far more than James had ever imagined it. He looked so beautiful with his full, red mouth wrapped around James’s cock.

If only he could see Thomas’s eyes- no. Not yet. Not if he didn’t want the sight of them to haunt his nightmares.

When his orgasm hit, James wasn’t expecting it at all. He cried out sharply, barely managing to seize some control over himself so he didn’t thrust down into Thomas’s throat – he didn’t want to choke his boy, not _right now_. Instead, he pulled out entirely, forcing his eyes open so he could see the way his come splash over Thomas’s face, white streaks contrasting sharply with the scarlet of his lips and the high, bright spots on his cheeks. Some of it landed on his tongue.

Thomas gasped, shuddering hard. James caught him by the jaw before he could pull back, smearing the come over his beard, over every inch of his face. Thomas made a sound, like a choked sob, and James slipped his fingers into his mouth.

Automatically, Thomas’s lips closed over them. He sucked, letting the taste of himself mix with James’s on his tongue.

So pliant. Such a fast learner.

Slowly, James lifted a hand from his boy. He kept the other hand there, fingers tangled into thick curls, as he tucked himself back into his underwear and slacks. Then he loosened the knot of the blindfold, slipping it off.

Tears were running down Thomas’s face again, mixing with the come. He looked a wreck. God, he was so beautiful. James wiped away the white streaks with the tear-soaked part of the scarf. It wasn’t enough, but it would do for now.

Leaning down, he hooked his arms beneath Thomas’s. He shifted backwards on the bed and pulled his boy with him until they were both collapsed on top of the sheets. He let Thomas bury his sticky face into his chest, and wrapped his arms around his back and hooked one leg over both of Thomas’s. At the same time, he ran his hands over those strong arms, moving down to the wrists. They were red despite the quality silk of the ties, and he rubbed them gently, soothing the ache that was surely there.

Thomas was still crying. Heavy, silent sobs that wreaked his entire body. He didn’t seem capable of speech, so James didn’t ask it of him. He simply continued to try to ease the soreness from the wrists.

Eventually, Thomas said: “I’m sorry.”

Two words, and another dam seemed to break inside him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, repeating himself over and over as if he had nothing else left in his vocabulary.

James didn’t know exactly what it was Thomas was apologising for, but he could make a couple of guesses. He knew, too, exactly how to stop it.

Sliding his hand once more into Thomas’s hair – he would never tire of how the strands felt sliding against the thin skin between his fingers – he lifted that beloved face up. He kissed his boy, stopping the flow of apologies.

“My rules,” he reminded. “You have to follow only my rules, Thomas.”

“I’m sor—” Thomas tried, but James pressed a thumb over his lips.

“By my rules,” he continued, “you have done nothing you need to apologise for. Nothing at all.”

If anyone needed to apologise, it would be James. But now was not the time for that. 

Swallowing, he looked into those dark eyes, wet with tears. His lips quirked up into a crooked smile he couldn’t entirely feel, and he leaned in to press their lips together. Barely a brush of the lips. Until Thomas practically lunged forward, his hands wrenching out of James’s grasp to cup his face, deepening the kiss further.

“James,” Thomas said. A prayer, heartfelt despite how muffled it was. “James. James, James, _James_.”

“Here,” James said, his own voice crushed between their mouths. “I’m here, Thomas. I’m here, my boy. I’m not going anywhere.”

When Thomas sobbed this time, it was loud, wrenching, and five years overdue. He pressed his face into James’s chest, trembling like a leaf, and James closed his eyes. He buried his face into Thomas’s hair, hand stroking down his back, over and over again.

He didn’t know how long it took. Eventually, Thomas calmed, his breathing starting to even out. He didn’t say another word; all of his usual eloquence shattered along with the pieces inside of him. James kissed his temple gently, and shifted his boy until he was lying on the mattress instead of on him.

“My sweet boy,” he murmured, brushing the back of his hand over Thomas’s sticky cheek. Thomas didn’t move. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep. James shifted away, and tried to stand up from the bed.

Immediately, Thomas whimpered. His hands reached out, catching only sheets. A sob caught in his throat. His eyes didn’t open. James leaned in, kissing him gently, then deeper when Thomas’s mouth parted beneath the weight of his own. His hand stroked down his boy’s side, one after the other, easing him back into sleep.

His boy. _His_.

Pulling back, James stood up. The world tilted a little, but he barely noticed – his focus was entirely on Thomas, making sure that he didn’t wake. He walked to the bathroom, stumbling only once or twice, before he returned with a wet face towel. He slid it over Thomas’s face, kissing him again when his boy’s nose wrinkled from the sudden chill. He kept on kissing him as he slipped the towel down Thomas’s body, then between his legs; quick swipes over his cock and hole.

Then he tucked Thomas inside the covers, tossed the towel along with the scarf and the ties into the laundry hamper. He walked out of the bedroom.

The lights were still switched on. The chain and the wedding ring were still where he’d dropped them; even the richness of the carpet could not dull the glimmer of white gold. James hooked his fingers beneath the chain, picking it up. He caught the ring before it could fall onto the floor. He put it on the coffee table.

If he tried, he could break the chain with his bare hands. He could order Thomas to not ask about it again. Over time, he could even order him to not think about it again.

He picked up the ring again and slipped it down the chain. He closed the clasp, and held the whole thing up to the light.

“Your marks are all over him, Martha,” he said softly. He should feel foolish for talking to a woman five years dead, but he didn’t. “Every inch of him. He can’t breathe without being reminded of your touch. Did you know that’d happen when you first started?”

After a moment, he shook his head, letting out a mirthless chuckle. “Of course you didn’t. You didn’t know what you were doing, and neither did he. But you were gone so fast. There one night, and gone in the morning. Did you mean to do that, too?”

James paused. He wasn’t waiting for an answer. His soft cock was sticky beneath his underwear. He shifted on the couch, but didn’t move beyond that.

“I want him so much. I want him _so much_.” He laughed again, helpless this time. The shaking of his shoulders made a lump rise in his throat. He tried to swallow it down. “No one else has ever made me want. Not even want this much, Martha. _Made me want_. Do you know how that feels?”

Did _he_ know how that felt? James felt that laughter rising again, and he pushed it down. No, of course he didn’t. He felt it, but he didn’t _know._

Was it normal to want someone this much? Or was this intensity because he had never felt anything like this before? He didn’t know. He was supposed to be the one with all of the answers.

And here he was, trying to get some from the dead.

Standing up, he walked to the guestroom. He stowed the chain and ring into the jacket he left folded on the bed. He went back to the bedroom; he went back to Thomas. He stood at the side of the bed, watching his boy. He rested his hand over the side of Thomas’s face, his thumb easing out the crease between his brows.

“I want you so much that it terrifies me,” he whispered, keeping his voice low enough that Thomas wouldn’t be able to hear him even if he had been awake.

Lifting the covers, James slipped into the bed. He wrapped himself around Thomas, arm around the slim waist and back pressed against his own broad chest. He buried his face into the tangled curls, and breathed in the scent of his boy.

There were rules about what they were doing. Thomas’s rules were James’s words. But if there was no world beyond the cage they built for themselves with their own hands, then what were _James’s rules_?

He wanted Thomas so much. Even now, with his boy asleep, his body pliant and sweet in his arms, he wanted him. He wanted to wake him and kiss and take him and fuck him and let him fly until he truly _believed_ that there was no world other than James. He wanted…

Everything was falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve been paying attention to the timestamps… The last five chapters, eight to twelve, happened during the _same weekend_ – 11 to 13 March. When it rains, it pours. 
> 
> Betty Hemings was really John Wayles’s slave. Her story is best told by her grandson, Madison Hemings, in his memoirs. I’ve just adapted the story to something that suits the modern era better, while keeping the essence of a bastard with a pile of privileges taking advantage of someone without any of them. The song Betty and Sally hum together is Billy Joel’s _Only the Good Die Young_.
> 
> By the way, regarding Madison’s manipulation of Jefferson, it comes straight from the musical. Look at every line they have in the songs they share, from “What’d I Miss” all the way to “Election of 1800”. Madison has Jefferson wound around his little finger. I’m just taking that to the extremes like I did everything else in this fic. (Every single creepy/terrible behaviour characters perform here have some musical/historical basis. Except for Sally. Sally’s choices come from my all-too-intimate understanding of working-class circumstances.) Madison has also hit the lowest I’d let him go. __  
>   
> Trial starts next chapter, btw. It only took me 13 chapters and nearly 100k words to get to the 'courtroom' bit of the 'courtroom drama' tag. FML.
> 
> PS: I will... reply to comments at some point. I've been on vacation; I'm sorry. Please know that I love all of you and I _will_ reply and give you the attention you all deserve.


	13. when there's reckoning to be reckoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: depiction of an abusive relationship not seen as such by the abused, and law. Second scene: hint of PTSD flashback at the end, and more law. Last scene: depiction of an emotionally abusive and manipulative relationship, anal sex without prep, pain without it being a kink, an older person taking advantage of someone much younger and thus… the rape tag comes into use again.

_March 28, Monday_

“All rise.”

Benjamin Franklin wasn’t a physically imposing man: clearly balding with thinning grey hair tied back into a short ponytail, narrow shoulders, and a slight paunch stretching the white cloth of his shirt. But there was a sharpness in those light blue eyes behind the old fashioned coke-bottle glasses, and an ambiguity in the constant, lopsided smile on his lips that had been many an unknowing lawyer’s doom.

Thomas unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down once Franklin did the same. The man began the legal proceedings, going through the commonly-known facts and the charge that was levied against Weeks. Thomas tuned out, far more interested in the slight crease between Franklin’s brows. There was at least fifty percent chance that Franklin was chewing on something else entirely than the case that he was adjudicating, but even that didn’t tell Thomas much.

Madison had said, back straight and eyes serious: _The case is a conflict of interests for Franklin, too_. Madison had said, sinking fingers into Thomas’s hair: _He’s known for his objectivity, but things like that will influence decisions he makes._ Madison had said, his thumb pressing over Thomas’s mouth: _Don’t give him reason to be biased against you._

“District Attorney Jefferson: you have the floor, sir.”

Sweeping out his jacket, Thomas stood up. He buttoned the thing again before he stepped out from behind the prosecuting bench. His eyes scanned over the room, taking in Hamilton – whose leg was jiggling – and Burr – who was almost preternaturally still. There, seated in the limited audience’s seats, were Kalessin and the rest of the Sands family. Further behind them: Angelica. Her eyes were as cold on him as they had been for the last two weeks.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Thomas turned towards the jury, meeting each one of their eyes as he headed for the centre of the courtroom. “Your Honour,” now Franklin. “Before I begin my opening statement, I will like to remind you that Mr Levi Weeks is charged with murder of the first degree.”

He paused deliberately, then tipped his head up slightly. “That is all that should matter in this case: is it first degree murder, or is it second degree? Is it manslaughter? Whatever the defence might say, ladies and gentlemen, Your Honour, there is no doubt whatsoever that Mr Weeks is directly responsible for the death of Mr Elric Sands. The reports of the paramedics and reporters confirm that. Mr Weeks has not tried to deny that either.”

Walking around the courtroom, he caught Luisa Sands’s eyes. Her hands were white-knuckled on top of her knees. He nodded towards her, and turned his attention back to the jury.

“Why are we in this courtroom, then? The sticky bit of the case: the contract.” Thomas stopped in the middle of the room. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Hamilton’s leg beginning to shake even more. Perhaps that was not actually one of the man’s actual tells, but Thomas had to stifle a sharp smile anyway.

“But I say, before we even begin interrogating the contract, that it doesn’t matter.” Narrowing his eyes on the jury, he raised his voice until it echoed around the courtroom: “Firstly, a single piece of paper, signed without witnesses, has no legal standing whatsoever. Secondly, consent _cannot_ and _should not_ be held as a possible excuse for causing the _death_ of a person.”

Turning around, he looked at Franklin now. When he spoke, he spoke practically to Franklin alone. “Britain 1993: R v Brown, known colloquially as Operational Spanner, comes to a decision that consent, even one repeatedly given for ten years, cannot be a defence for offences against a person. Perhaps we, in America, cannot take it this far: New Jersey excuses physical assaults if they are done through mutual consent. Germany 2005: Armin Meiwes, once convicted for manslaughter for murdering and cannibalising a man who consented to the act, was given a retrial, and convicted for murder of the first degree and given the life sentence.”

His lips curled upwards when Franklin’s eyes narrowed. Thomas turned back to the jury.

“No matter what the defence may try to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, there are precedents for the case like this. And in all of those precedents, consent – written, verbal, or otherwise – has no bearing on the harm done. Consent _cannot_ be given in such a case.”

Shifting his gaze back to Franklin, Thomas met those sharp blue eyes for a long moment. “The reason is not that a relationship of this sort is immoral.” His voice was softer now. “That has no bearing upon this case as there are no laws that forbid such a relationship. No, Your Honour,” back to the jury, “ladies and gentlemen, consent is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord _cannot_ hold up in this court.”

Thomas stopped speaking. Ostensibly, it was to let the words echoing in the spacious courtroom some time to sink in. But he _couldn’t_ continue even if he wanted to: his lungs had seized up entirely. He couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t close his eyes. This wasn’t the time to show such vulnerability. And he didn’t need to.

Madison said: _you follow my rules, and not the laws of the world_. Madison’s arms around his torso this morning, long fingers buttoning up Thomas’s shirt from the bottom upwards: _the world’s eyes on you do not matter; only mine do._ Madison’s eyes on his in the mirror, his mouth closing over Thomas’s jaw, suckling a light bruise that was easily hidden by the darkness of his skin and beard: _remember how I look on you now, darlin’, and hold onto it_.

An exhale escaped him. He held onto it. 

Then he turned, and aimed the very last part of his opening statement to Levi Weeks himself, handcuffed and seated in the defendant’s stand.

“As my witnesses’ testimonies and the evidence will show, Your Honour, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: Mr Weeks held an immeasurable amount of power over Mr Sands,” he said, keeping his voice the same volume as before. “Mr Weeks was perfectly capable and perfectly willing to manipulate Mr Sands to his own whims and benefits. In such a situation, how can there be consent? In such a situation, how can consent even hold any meaning whatsoever?” 

Another pause. This time, it was entirely for dramatic impact.

“Furthermore, as I stated in the beginning of my speech, the contract signed was not witnessed by anyone. As a result, we do not know the circumstances during which it was signed. The only testimony we have is Mr Weeks’s; the word of a man who has everything to lose.” Thomas ducked his head, then raised it again, eyes brightening even further. “A man who has shown himself perfectly capable of lying to law enforcement. A man who, as my evidence and witnesses will show you, has reasons aplenty to want Mr Sands, his fiancé, dead.”

He shifted his attention back to the jury.

“No matter what the defence might say, this is not a case dependent upon debating the legalities of the contract between Mr Elric Sands and Mr Levi Weeks. The contract is irrelevant; it does not represent consent. Mr Weeks killed Mr Sands; that fact is undeniable. The only contention left is if the homicide was pre-mediated. Throughout this trial, the prosecution will show you that there is no reasonable doubt that Mr Weeks has, in fact, planned and executed Mr Sands’s murder.”

Thomas took one cursory glance around the room. Most of the members of the jury were staring at him, frowning – Thomas didn’t mind; he was simply setting up the framework of his argument, because most of it relied on evidence and proof that he could not currently show them.

Franklin was sitting back on his chair, fingers linked together. His eyes were unreadable. Hamilton was practically vibrating in his seat, while Burr hadn’t moved a single inch throughout Thomas’s opening statement. Levi Weeks had buried his face behind his hands in the defendant’s stand, and his sister Ezrine’s lips were drawn into a tight, white line.

Angelica was smiling without the expression reaching her eyes. Her fingers tapped continuously on her knee. Luisa and Alphonse Sands were clutching onto each other’s hands. Thomas avoided their eyes.

He inclined his head towards the room in general.

“Thank you,” he said, and retreated back to his seat at the prosecution side of the courtroom. On his way there, he flashed a smile in the general direction of the Sands family.

His hands were trembling as he unbuttoned his suit jacket again. He hid them underneath the table as he sat down, and kept his eyes on Hamilton and Burr.

***

The moment Jefferson took his seat, Alexander sought to jump to his feet. But there was a heavy weight on his shoulder, Burr’s hand, and those dark eyes were narrowed. Alexander opened his mouth, and then shut it again when Burr jerked his head towards the judge.

Franklin’s name was known throughout the state, of course – the Massachusetts judge who had transferred over the New York and rebuilt his entire practice because he was bored of the laws of his home state. He was better-known for his incomprehensible tweets and his even stranger photographs on Instagram than for his judicial work. Alexander could barely believe it when he heard that Franklin would be the one presiding over his case; surely a case like theirs deserved better than an accident comedian on the Internet?

But now he knew that there was plenty that the ridiculous reputation obscured. Even though Franklin had his head on his hand and his posture could almost be described as a slouch, his eyes were a narrowed, eerie blue, and his fingers curled around the judge’s gavel were so relaxed that it had to be deliberate. His gaze was fixed upon Jefferson, and despite the man’s despicable opening statement, Alexander had to grudgingly admit that Jefferson had some balls: he was meeting that gaze squarely.

Moments passed. The jury watched the tableau, rather still themselves. Burr’s hand tightened on his shoulder, the pressure heavy enough to hurt.

Then, abruptly, the spell broke: “Counsellors Burr and Hamilton: your opening statement.”

Stifling down the instinctive irritation that Burr’s name came before his, Alexander jumped from his seat. He wasted no time or dramatics on walking behind his desk with flourish or deliberateness, crossing the distance instead with quick, impatient strides.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m curious, bear with me,” he started, barely able to enunciate every word before they tripped out of his mouth. “Are we aware that we are making history? This is the first trial of its like, the birth of a brand new legal precedent. Your deliberation for this case will confirm or deny the core value of our nation: liberty.”

Burr’s eyes were narrowing on him. Alexander ignored him, instead taking a step towards the jury.

“Liberty, I say, and it is liberty that we have come to argue. District Attorney Jefferson has made several assumptions towards our defence; unfortunately for him, all of them are wrong. He is wrong, too, about the core of the case.” Taking a deep breath, he took another step forward, gaze roving from one member of the jury to the other.

“District Attorney Jefferson tried to dismiss the contract as being irrelevant, but it is in fact the opposite: the contract is the most important contention of this case. Within the contract lies the right of individuals to make decisions regarding their bodies; the right of individuals to the ownership of their own bodies. Not just for our client, Mr Levi Weeks, but for Mr Elric Sands himself.” 

Alexander’s hands were practically trembling with excitement. He tried to still them with a calming breath. He looked towards Burr, but the other man was staring off into the distance, his lips still pressed flat. Alexander squashed down the odd, distant feeling of disappointment and focused on Franklin instead.

“There is a legal precedent for this case that District Attorney Jefferson did not mention: People v Jovanovic,” he said, taking care to ensure that he didn’t speak too quickly even though his mind was running a mile a minute. “That case was a gross miscarriage of justice for Mr Jovanovic, who was convicted of kidnapping, sexual abuse and assault _even though_ his alleged victim, Ms Jamie Rzucek, consented to the encounter. During the first trial for the case, evidence was withheld based upon the assumption that Ms Rzucek _could not_ have consented; that she could be nothing more than a victim; that she had no right to do as she wished to her own body. The retrial, and the acquittal of Mr Jovanovic, was based upon proving those assumptions _wrong_.”

Jefferson was leaning back against his chair, hands folded on top of his desk. There was a tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth. Alexander wanted, more than anything, to wipe it off.

“We as defence insist that the contract is of utmost importance for the case, for it is without precedent. It is a written form of an agreement between two parties that allow harm to be done upon one by the mutual consent of both. In Mr Sands’s own words, he agreed ‘wholly and without reservation to allow Levi Weeks to use electricity on him, with full understanding of the possible consequences and injuries that might result.’”

Pausing, Alexander took a deep breath, trying to calm his roaring heartbeat. He glanced at Levi, giving the man a reassuring smile. It would be fine. He could win this case. There was no way he wouldn’t be able to. 

He was right; he knew he was. It didn’t matter the kinds of wounds Burr inflicted on him: Alexander asked for every single one of them, and he had the perfect right to allow such harm to be done. His body was _his_ to treat however he wanted.

And he believed Levi was innocent. There was no way that he could be otherwise. 

“The prosecution tried to condemn our client. District Attorney Jefferson painted a merciless picture of Mr Weeks a murderer and manipulator right here, in front of not only Mr Weeks himself, but his loving sister. The prosecution accused our client of abusing Mr Sands; of stripping any possible ability to consent away from him. But the prosecution in his haste to condemn our client has instead condemned the victim of the case.”

Turning around, he faced Jefferson. His head tipped upwards; his eyes narrowed.

“It was not Mr Weeks who has stripped Mr Sands of his rights to the ownership of his own body. On the contrary, Mr Weeks’s every action has respected that right, and ensured that he received an irrefutable form of consent with all possible terms laid out. It is District Attorney Jefferson who divested Mr Sands of his rights to his own body; who deprived him of the right to make decisions that affect only himself; who denied him his individual liberty.”

Jefferson didn’t seem to react: he merely cocked his head. Infuriatingly, he seemed to be checking the state of his nails. Alexander jerked his head away before the rage could take over him and make him say something he would regret.

“Our argument for this case, the core of this case, hinges upon the contract, ladies and gentle,” he said. “Along with the evidence and testimonies gathered, I will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt with my assistant counsel—” 

“Co-counsel,” Burr’s interrupted him, his cold, calm voice slicing through Alexander’s effortlessly. Alexander jerked, turning.

Burr’s eyes were a chilly almost-grey, like chips of hail fresh-fallen from the sky. He jerked his head towards the chair. “Our client Mr Levi Weeks is innocent,” he continued, facing the jury.

“Hamilton, sit down.”

 _What_? Alexander instinctively stifled the immediate rage that wanted to rise within him, though it came up so fast that he almost choked on it. His hands clenched tight by his sides, and he dug his nails into his palms even as he turned back to the jury. Their attention was fixed upon Burr; they weren’t looking at him.

Well, he would _change_ that.

“One more thing,” he said, raising his voice until it was loud enough to resonate throughout the room. “Liberty, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Liberty to act according to our own desires; liberty to have ownership over our own bodies. The core values of the nation. We should respect the liberty of Mr Elric Sands to make his own decisions, and grieve with Mr Levi Weeks for the tragic accident that had taken away the life of the man he loves.”

The jury were looking at him now. Good. Alexander inclined his head, just a little jerkily.

“Thank you,” he said, and walked back to his seat. His hands were almost shaking; he made sure to not clench them until he could hide them beneath the table. 

How the hell could Burr do that? Alexander was on a roll. He was so close to convincing the jury even before the testimonies started and the evidences were shown. He was so damned _close_.

There was silence in the courtroom. Almost every pair of eyes were on the two of them. Alexander caught sight of a very familiar figure out of the corner of his vision, but he deliberately didn’t turn to look at Angelica- at Ms Schuyler. She wasn’t here for him; he knew that much.

“The next item on the itinerary of today will be the testimonies of Dr John Laurens and Detective Hercules Mulligan,” Franklin said, his voice cracking whip-sharp across the tension of the room. Alexander’s head jerked up to stare at the man, standing high up on his podium. 

“But given the state of our defendant,” Franklin continued, his gaze shifting towards the side, “court is adjourned for a brief recess. We’ll reconvene in half an hour.”

Standing up immediately, Alexander’s eyes followed Franklin’s – Levi was sitting behind the defendant’s stand, his shoulders shaking. His sobs were loud enough to reach across the vast space of the courtroom between them. Alexander made to go to him.

“Hamilton.” Burr’s voice again, right beside him this time. Despite himself, Alexander stopped.

“I need to talk to you.”

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in Burr’s voice. Fighting down a shiver, Alexander tipped his head back so he could look _down_ on the other man.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to say, too,” he said, managing to find his voice amidst the coiling ball of dread inside his throat.

Burr nodded. He turned around, and swept out of the courtroom. Alexander followed him.

At the door, Jefferson brushed by them. Dark eyes looked at Alexander for a moment before that infuriating smirk widened even further. “Your bulldog needs a better leash, Burr,” he said.

Alexander opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Burr grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away. He struggled against that grip instinctively, but Burr was surprisingly strong even though he was slimmer than Alexander, and he only stopped once they exited the courthouse and were standing in a desolate corner near the wall.

“What the _hell_ ,” Burr said, whirling upon him, “did you think you were doing?”

His tone was flat, but his eyes were spitting fire. Alexander bristled.

“That’s what I’d like to say to _you_!” he hissed sharply, hands in tight fists by his side as he stepped closer to the other man. “You interrupted me in the midst of my opening statement! You undermined me in front of the jury!”

“Nothing of what you _said_ was what we agreed upon,” Burr said in the same horribly empty voice. “Nothing. You stood up and starting spouting some rubbish about liberty. You said nothing except to accuse Jefferson of something we can’t even prove.” 

“I was right about every word,” Alexander shot back. He pressed his lips shut tightly when his own voice echoed back to him, overly loud. “I thought of a better argument. Didn’t you always say that the job of the defence is to cast reasonable doubt upon the prosecution’s arguments?”

Burr laughed, entirely mirthless. The chill of it sank down into Alexander’s bones and dug its claws into his nerves.

“Cases are not won by dramatics and ad hominem attacks, Hamilton,” Burr said. “You have destroyed our case before we even got to the testimonies.”

“Like hell I did!” Alexander burst out, too loud again. He reached out, poking a finger into Burr’s chest. “If there’s anyone who did, it was _you_ , because you _interrupted_ me halfway—”

“Assistant counsel,” Burr said, doing it again. “You said assistant counsel.”

“So what if I did?” Alexander asked, truly angry now. “You should’ve let me—”

No matter how many times Alexander witnessed it, no matter how many times he was on the receiving end of it, he would never stop being surprised at how fast Burr could move. His head slammed against the wall, and there was a hand on his throat.

“This was supposed to be my case, and mine alone,” Burr hissed, his dark eyes narrowed into slits as he leaned in close. “You’re only working on it because Washington likes his little _favourites_ , Hamilton. Don’t forget that.”

Alexander’s breath tripped in his throat. Burr knew. Of course Burr knew. Burr always seemed to know everything. He always knew everything and never told Alexander about anything and the rage was rising in his throat—

“If you call me your assistant counsel again,” Burr continued, his voice soft and poisonous, a snake’s hiss forming words. “If you even _think_ of replacing what we have discussed with some piece of shit argument you cook up on the fly, I’ll convince Ms Weeks to drop you.”

Thin lips curled into a sharp, cruel smile.

“I can do it,” Burr said, and his voice smoothed out into a quiet, charming purr. “I have the _manners_ , after all.”

“Fuck you,” Alexander spat out. His teeth clicked together, and he drew his lips back to bare them at Burr. “ _Fuck you_ if you think threatening me like this is going to work.”

Burr’s eyes narrowed, but Alexander was on a roll again, words forming on his mouth before they even touched his mind.

“I’ve noticed something about you, you know,” he snarled. “Every single time I do something that you don’t want me to, you try to strangle me, you try to hit me, and you threaten me. And you never fucking tell me what it is I do wrong. Sure, I like it fine, I like it just fine, but in case you haven’t noticed, Burr…”

He leaned forward until there was less than an inch between their eyes: “There’s a _fucking big_ difference between what I’m willing to take outside the office, and when we’re trying to do our fucking _jobs_.”

They were so close that he could feel Burr’s breath hitching; a sudden gust of warm, wet air against his cheek. He could see Burr’s pupils dilate; could practically see the darkness of them grow until they were wide enough to drown in.

Alexander drove in the knife: “At least give me a damned kiss or something,” he mocked.

Then Burr was letting go of him and moving back so quickly that he seemed to have gained some kind of teleportation ability. Alexander coughed, rubbing his own neck with his hand. Even though Burr hadn’t really been strangling him, he was still…

This time, Alexander interrupted his own thoughts. None of them seemed important when Burr was still standing there, a distance away. But the other man seemed to have frozen entirely, his shoulders stiff. He was staring at Alexander as if Alexander was his nightmare made real again.

Alexander knew that look. He had seen it before: on his own face, on Sarah’s face.

Somehow, out of some kind of stupid, dumb luck, he had hit something really important. 

“The cross-examination is mine,” Burr said. Alexander didn’t think his voice could sound even hollower than it already had, and yet, there it was. Burr’s voice now was the abyss made into sound. He couldn’t help but shiver.

“Yeah,” he said. He licked his lips, and nodded back when Burr’s head jerked downwards at him. Like a puppet’s. 

“I’m—” he started, but before he could even finish the apology, Burr was already walking away. Alexander stared at his retreating back. He noted, dully, that Burr’s hands were shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched over.

What the hell was it? What did he _say_?

There was no answer incoming. Nothingness. Like the abyss in Burr’s eyes.

Turning around, Alexander slammed his fist against the wall.

Why the hell did he even _care_?

***

_February 6, 2005, Sunday_

Aaron spent his eighteenth birthday much like he had spent his seventeenth, like he had spent most days ever since he’d entered Columbia: holed up in the library, going through his readings while making notes. The only difference was that ‘happy birthday!’ was added to Sarah’s usual text to him, and Madison sent him a text wishing the same but sans the exclamation mark.

Perhaps some would think that he was wasting the prime of his youth by living like a hermit. But Aaron didn’t much care about what those people thought – he did not have many friends, but those he had, he valued their companionship. Besides, he spent most of his life alone except for Sarah; he didn’t need many people. Especially not people like Alexander Hamilton – someone else who had received early admission to Columbia at the same time Burr did, though he was a year older, and whom his debate teammates thought he should ‘hang out’ with more just because they were closer in age to each other than they were to most others in the university.

Which was just patently absurd. Hamilton was far too loud, and liked getting into trouble with the band of friends he’d found. He talked too much.

“Little Burr.”

The familiar deep voice cut through the heavy silence of this particular part of the library. Aaron looked up, a smile curling up his lips despite his hatred of the nickname.

“Mr Paterson,” he said, setting his pen down. “I’m not quite so little anymore, you know.”

William Paterson was another student in the university, far further down the law track than Aaron himself. He shouldn’t have much to do with some undergrad, but somehow he’d managed to take an interest in Aaron all the way back in his freshman year. He was a good mentor, a good guide, and Aaron valued his friendship. He was proof that the idea that age should determine the kind of relationship two people could have with each other was ridiculous.

“How many times must I ask you to call me Will?” Paterson said, pulling out a chair at Aaron’s table and sitting down on it, all easy grace and smiles. “You’re a legal adult now, little Burr. Even if you were not, you’ve long earned the right to dismiss the formalities.”

Aaron shook his head, a helpless smile curling up his own mouth. “As you said, _William_ ,” he put stress on that name, “I’m a legal adult. That nickname must have gotten old by now.”

“What about ‘little Aaron’?” Paterson asked, smile shifting into a smirk. “That should be better, right? Since you’re calling me ‘William’ now.”

Rolling his eyes, Aaron crossed his arms. He huffed out an irritated breath. It was easier now, after all of Paterson’s urgings, to show more of his emotions to the man.

“It’s the ‘little’ part that I’m taking issue with,” he stated dryly. Though he couldn’t really blame Paterson for thinking him small: at over six foot three with broad shoulders, Paterson dwarfed most of the population. Aaron himself wasn’t particularly large as a man either.

“Alright, alright,” Paterson laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. The pink tips of his fingers glittered underneath the soft fluorescent lights of the library, contrasting even more sharply with his dark, smooth skin.

Then he reached out and took one of Aaron’s hands. His thumb ran over Aaron’s knuckles before he pulled them up and brushed his mouth over them. His breath was warm.

 _Oh_ , Aaron thought distantly.

“You’re a legal adult now,” Paterson said. 

Aaron wasn’t exactly a fool. He knew that Paterson wanted him; had known it since he was sixteen, just a few days after they met. Paterson touched him whenever he could, though the touches never went below what was considered acceptable between men. Paterson paid more attention to him than he did anyone, even though Aaron was nothing more than an undergraduate, early admission and direct law track or not.

He had decided long ago that it was flattering. Paterson never did anything terrible, and having the man by his side meant that Aaron managed to escape a lot of the resentful mutters aimed his way. (His uncle was an alumnus, and the Burr name was pretty well-known and established in New York; there had been plenty of talk of nepotism from the moment he stepped into the college and introduced himself.)

Paterson had done a great deal for him. He had never asked for anything in return. Even now, he was looking at Aaron with dark eyes filled with desire without any sort of expectation. His thumb across Aaron’s knuckles was soothing. And with his deep-set eyes and square jaw, he could be said to be rather handsome.

“Yeah,” Aaron said. His mouth was inexplicably dry; he swallowed. “I am.” He didn’t pull his hand away.

Keeping his gaze on Aaron, Paterson lifted that hand up. This time, he kissed the underside of Aaron’s wrist, practically nuzzling against the skin. 

“Shall we give you a proper birthday celebration?” he asked.

That… Aaron hesitated. He knew exactly what Paterson meant, of course – he might be eighteen, but he wasn’t _stupid_ – but this wasn’t exactly something he was familiar with. Not just because Paterson was a man – Aaron might have grown up in a religious household, but the behaviours of those who swore their allegiances to God had proven that God really didn’t exist at all – but because he wasn’t particularly experienced with this.

Running his hand over his head, he gave the other man a sheepish smile. “I really have to finish these readings,” he said, waving towards the small stack of paper beside him. “Maybe… afterwards?”

Dark eyes rested on him for a long moment. Slowly, Paterson nodded. “Alright,” he said. “I’ve waited a long time. I’m sure I can wait a little longer.”

He was, Aaron decided, a good man. Nodding, he shoved down the instinctive trepidation – he wasn’t a _child_ to be nervous at the thought of sexual relationships – before he turned back to his books.

Paterson stayed there for the entire time as he went through his readings. Luckily, Aaron had long ago learned how to block the world out when he needed to focus on his work, so he managed to go through the articles pretty quickly. 

Well, not that quickly: when he looked up again and checked his watch, he realised that two and a half hours had gone past. Paterson still there.

“Sorry for making you wait so long,” Aaron said, ducking his head down. “I didn’t think I’d…”

A laugh interrupted him before he could finish. Paterson shrugged, reaching out and closing his fingers around Aaron’s wrist again. “You were speeding through the papers,” he said. “You really are a wonderful prodigy, little Aaron.”

Keeping his eyes on the table, Aaron shook his head. He gathered up his books and papers, shoving all of them into his messenger bag. “There’s still a lot that I have to learn,” he said. He never liked being called a prodigy: he’d worked hard for his early admission, to escape his uncle’s house, and ‘prodigy’ always implied that he hadn’t put in any effort whatsoever.

Still, this wasn’t something worth arguing about. Instead, he slung the strap of his bag over his shoulders, and gave Paterson a smile that he hoped didn’t look particularly nervous.

“Where are we going?”

“Well, we can go to your dorm,” Paterson said, draping his arm around Aaron’s shoulders as he helped him pick up the books. “Or we can head to my apartment.”

Aaron was rooming with someone; Paterson lived alone. The choice was easy. “The second one,” he said.

“Alright,” Paterson said. The older man looked at Aaron for a long moment before he smiled. “Let’s go, then.”

Paterson drove a Ford, a car that was neither flashy nor beat-up; a brand that was American without need of gaudy flags or stickers so his patriotism wasn’t too overt. His apartment building south of the campus at Bellaire Drive could be described in much of the same way, except without the patriotism.

 _You have to learn how people think_ , he’d told Aaron during one of their first few long conversations last year. _Learn how they think, the rules they think are important, and shape your outer appearance so that you fit into all of them. That way, you won’t offend anyone; that way, you can do as you like without any of them trying to interfere. That’s how you rise in the world._  
  
Though Aaron already knew that, it was the first time someone had put into proper words the instincts he’d had throughout his entirely life. If there was nothing he was grateful to Paterson for, there was that.

The two of them didn’t speak much as they rode in the elevator. Aaron tried to think up of some small talk, but there was a tension in Paterson’s body that killed all of the words before they could even form in this throat. He stayed silent, then, hiding his clenched fists in his pockets as he watched Paterson fumble with the keys to his own apartment.

That was strange: Paterson had always been elegant and graceful; Aaron had never seen him falter at anything. Especially not something as simple as this.

He realised why when he stepped inside: there was the sound of a _slam_ , and a burst of pain at his shoulders and the back of his head. A pressure on his mouth as Paterson shoved him against the door and kissed him hard.

“Wanted you since the first time I saw you,” Paterson murmured, his larger body bracketing Aaron’s as his teeth scraped over Aaron’s lips. “God, you’re so _pretty_.”

“William,” Aaron tried. But he couldn’t say much else, because Paterson was pulling away. He bent down, grabbing Aaron by the hips and lifting him up. Aaron yelped, flailing, hands scraping against the wood of the door and his legs snapping instinctively around the older man’s hips, trying to hold himself steady when solid ground simply _disappeared_.

Trying to calm himself, he breathed in through his teeth. His eyes were squeezed shut - he was getting vertigo from how the room was spinning as Paterson started to walk while carrying him. He felt like a child; no one had carried him since he had been so small that he couldn’t even remember.

His back hit something – a mattress – and that drove another yelp out of him. Eyes flying open, Aaron cringed when he saw Paterson’s face looming over his.

“Shit,” Paterson said. He sounded breathless. His hand trembled when he cupped Aaron’s face with one of them, sinking down onto his elbows. “Sorry, sorry. I’m… I’m just overexcited. I’ve waited for this day for so long.”

“It’s,” Aaron said. His voice died in his throat. He licked his lips, mind scrabbling. His mouth said: “It’s okay. I was just surprised.”

“Really?” Paterson said. He closed his eyes, burying his face into Aaron’s thin shoulder. His fingers slid from Aaron’s cheek down to his throat, thumb tracing his collarbones. “Tell me you’re alright with this, little Aaron. Tell me I’m not mistaken because I’m getting carried away.”

Aaron closed his eyes. He didn’t know why he was doing it. “It’s okay,” he heard himself say again. “I’m alright with this.” He licked his lips again.

 _Learn how people think_.

“This is a good birthday present,” he said. There was so much he owed to Paterson.

Paterson kissed him again. Aaron opened his mouth. He didn’t know what else to do, but Paterson seemed fine with that, because he licked into Aaron’s mouth as if he was trying to claim every inch, though that shouldn’t be possible.

When Paterson’s hands closed around the hem of Aaron’s sweater, he lifted his arms so it could be removed. He didn’t look down at himself – his too-thin torso, his skinny arms – especially when Paterson stripped himself of his own Columbia hoodie. Instead, Aaron lifted his hips, letting the older man pull his jeans off as well.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Paterson said. His nails scraped over Aaron’s chest, following the lines of the ribs that showed stark beneath the skin. Aaron shifted on the bed, a flush rising on his cheeks because he knew that he really wasn’t particularly attractive, especially in comparison to everyone else in the college. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. He reached out and hesitantly helped Paterson unbuckle his belt. Despite himself, his hands avoided the bulge at the crotch that was directly in his line of sight.

“And so polite,” Paterson said. Now this was something familiar: the teasing tone winding through that deep, rumbling voice. Paterson grinned at him, leaning down to kiss Aaron again.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Aaron could see Paterson scrambling for something in his pocket. Whatever it was dropped onto the bed, and then the other man was pulling away again to divest himself of his jeans. It didn’t seem particularly efficient, what Paterson was doing, but Aaron supposed that desire could make a person less practical.

He blinked when Paterson held up a small plastic bottle he had never seen before, but which he could immediately recognise. 

“Last chance to back out, little Aaron,” Paterson said. For some strange reason, he was smiling, but the look didn’t reach his eyes. Aaron felt an odd little shiver start to make its way down his spine.

“Uh,” he started. He knew exactly what Paterson meant by those… things, but he didn’t think it would be… Hell, what was he thinking would happen? He should’ve known, honestly. He should’ve figured it out. It wouldn’t be fair to Paterson if he backed out now. Aaron hadn’t given his word, exactly, but he _had_ made Paterson think that this was going to happen.

Besides, he owed the man a great deal. This was something very small that he was asking.

So Aaron fought down the cringe, and smiled instead. He wasn’t sure if it reached his eyes, so he smiled wider.

“I’m not backing out,” he said. 

“Good,” Paterson said, sounding pleased. His approval turned Aaron’s smile a little easier to give. Then he dropped the bottle, spreading out his arms. “Help me get these off?” he asked, motioning to his pants.

Right. Aaron took a deep breath. Sitting up, he reached out and hooked his fingers beneath the loose waistband of the jeans. He tugged. Paterson’s fingers closed around his, and shifted them to the elastic of the underwear beneath. Aaron’s hands stopped obeying him. But that didn’t matter, because Paterson guided him through his nervousness, and the underwear went down.

Aaron had never seen another man’s erection before. But now one was in front of his face, and he… his mind shied away from trying to describe it.

“C’mon, little Aaron,” Paterson encouraged. “Touch me.”

When Aaron couldn’t force his hand to move, Paterson’s grip moved down to his wrist, tightening. He closed Aaron’s thin fingers around his heavy – there, a descriptor – cock, stroking it. The skin was hot – another descriptor, Aaron was getting the hang of this – beneath Aaron’s. It was silky and dry at the same time, and it was… a little difficult to move.

Before Aaron could say a word, though, Paterson pulled his hand away. Aaron’s hand flopped in the air, looking like a sad, disembodied puppet. Paterson turned it so the palm was facing up. Cold lube dripped from the bottle – when had Paterson reached for that thing? – into his hand.

There was a lot of lube.

“Rub your fingers together,” Paterson instructed. Aaron did. The liquid felt strange. Slippery like soap, and yet not. “Now, try it again.” 

His hand back on Paterson’s heavy cock – he needed to find another descriptor. Aaron stroked. It was getting easier now that he was learning the movements of the wrist. Not much different than doing it to himself, really, though Aaron had long ago learned to stifle his breathing instead of letting himself pant like Paterson was doing.

The cock was twitching with every upward stroke. Aaron bit down on his lip. Maybe this was what Paterson wanted.

“Enough,” Paterson told him. His voice was hoarse and raspy in his throat, colour high enough on his cheeks that the scarlet showed through his dark skin. “… Enough, little Aaron.”

Okay, so maybe not.

“Lie back down,” Paterson said, nudging his shoulder lightly. Aaron fell back onto the bed. Paterson loomed over him again, and Aaron blinked when he was kissed. Everything was strange and nothing like the books and websites he’d read, because there was no heat or stars of any sort. 

He shuddered involuntarily when Paterson pulled down his underwear. He could feel the slick wetness of the man’s cock against the juncture of his thighs now. He hoped that Paterson didn’t notice that he wasn’t hard at all, but then there was a hand over his cock.

“Sorry,” he said. It was muffled.

“That’s alright,” Paterson said benevolently. His hand reached above Aaron’s head, the other one nudging at his hip. Aaron lifted himself up, and felt a pillow beneath shoved underneath his butt.

What—

There was no time to complete the sentence: there was just Paterson grabbing his legs, pushing them back, and then _pain_.

Aaron jerked up, his hands immediately flailing. There was a sound echoing in the room; it took him a second to realise it was his voice. He was screaming. He was screaming and his hands were on Paterson’s shoulders and everything just _hurt_ so damned much and it _hurt_ and his throat was aching with every breath—

Mouth. A mouth on his. Aaron’s breath choked in his throat. Paterson’s shoulders were no longer within reach; Aaron’s wrists were gathered up in one large hand. His voice was still echoing in his head, as if Paterson’s kiss was only redirecting the scream inward—

“C’mon now, little Aaron.” Paterson’s voice, cutting like a knife through his thoughts. Aaron’s breathing hitched. “C’mon now.”

He sounded _disappointed_. Aaron was doing something wrong. He trespassed one of the rules. He wasn’t… wasn’t supposed to scream. Was that it? He stopped screaming.

“Shhh,” Paterson told him. Large hands slid down his sides, holding onto his hips. The pain and pressure between Aaron’s legs eased slightly. Aaron tried to breathe—

And he choked, hard, when it all came back, even harder and sharper than before. He had read before that it was like being impaled, but he never thought it could hurt this much. Wasn’t there something else that was supposed to happen? 

“You’re a man now, little Aaron,” Paterson was telling him, his voice heavy and exhales hot in Aaron’s ear. “C’mon. You can take this.”

No, Paterson obviously knew how things went so he knew better than Aaron. Aaron was behaving like a child. He wasn’t a child anymore. He swallowed hard, and shoved the scream down as well.

“I’m,” he tried to say. His voice cracked.

Paterson laughed. Despite the ringing in Aaron’s ear, despite how everything sounded and felt muffled, he could hear the mockery in it. He could…

No, no.

“Sorry,” he begged. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Paterson said, because he was a very kind man. His hand stroked over Aaron’s cheek. “It’s okay, little Aaron. Just breathe, alright? Breathe.”

Aaron breathed. The pain didn’t stop. “William,” he begged again.

“Think about it this way,” Paterson said. He pulled out, and thrust in again. This time, Aaron managed to swallow back his scream before it could even reach the back of his throat “There’s nothing worth doing if it doesn’t take effort and some struggle.”

 _Oh._ Everything clicked into place immediately. Aaron nodded.

“Alright,” he said.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he concentrated. Effort and struggle. He was used to those; he knew those. He made the effort to wrap all of the pain up into a ball; he struggled to shove it all into that closet in the corner of his mind that he’d had since he was a child.

The pain didn’t ease. Aaron just stopped paying attention to it, and so that was much of the same thing in the end. His breathing eased out. He didn’t get hard, his cock flopping there useless on his thigh, but that didn’t matter to Paterson so it didn’t matter to him either.

Perhaps it took only a few minutes, perhaps it took an hour or more, but eventually Paterson came, a warm, wet rush inside him. He held his breath until Paterson pulled out. Then he opened his eyes.

Paterson was still looming over him. Aaron bit the inside of his cheek, refusing to look away when Paterson’s hand cupped his cheek, wiping away the tears that Aaron hadn’t even notice were falling.

“Was that a good birthday present?”

 _Learn how people think_. Effort and struggle. 

Aaron smiled.

“Yes,” he said. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the palm.

When Paterson laughed, Aaron noticed the ringing triumph in that deep voice, and shelved it away in the same closet in his mind.

***

_March 28, 2016, Monday_

Aaron stood in front of the bathroom mirror.  
__  
Every single time I do something that you don’t want me to, you try to strangle me, you try to hit me, and you threaten me. And you never fucking tell me what it is I do wrong.  
  
He splashed water on his face. His hands were shaking. He stuck them underneath the hand dryer. Facing the wall, he closed his eyes. Slowly, he shoved the phantoms back into their usual closet at the back of his mind.

 _At least give me a damned kiss or something_.

Hamilton was a ghost with no defined place. He roamed through Aaron’s head, raising dust everywhere he touched. Aaron grabbed a few paper towels. He walked back into the mirror, and stared at his own eyes. 

His fist still hurt when he slammed it into the glass. The padding didn’t blunt the impact much. That was fine. He did it again, and again.

It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same. He was open with it. Hamilton knew exactly what he would get when he came to Aaron. It wasn’t nearly the same.

When he unwrapped the towels from his hand, his knuckles were red. His watch told him that the recess was over. He walked out of the bathroom. He headed for his seat at the defence’s bench. He sat down. He kept his expression pleasantly neutral.

 _Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for_. _Fools who run their mouths off wind up dead_.

His own words, now. Not Paterson’s.

Old ghosts did not have their place in the present. There was a job he needed to do.

If Hamilton had broken the bars that locked each part of his mind away and kept them separate, then Aaron would just build them again.

The process was familiar enough by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the cases mentioned are real. 
> 
> Benjamin Franklin is played by his actor in _1776:_[Howard de Silva](http://i.imgur.com/YaHSKuF.png). I don’t have a specific actor for Paterson because I really don’t want this guy to have a face. He’s disturbing enough already without one.
> 
> Remember I said something about consent issues regarding age back in Chapter Ten? The last scene was what I was hinting towards. Addendum to the summary of consent issues: “Sometimes a ‘yes’ isn’t a ‘yes’; an act being legal doesn’t make it right, and neither does an act being illegal make it wrong.” Shades of grey and everything is complicated. If you contrast that scene with all the other sex scenes, it becomes even more obvious.
> 
> Again, if anything you have read here has disturbed you or made you feel things you don’t want to, please stop reading. I warn and tag everything I can think of, and I’m not going to justify my choices or perspectives. Everything that I can say is already in the fic itself.


	14. take the bullets out your gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need to admit that you’re wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: safe, sane, consensual BDSM between two women. Second scene: internalised homophobia, a completely warped sense of self-definition, dubious consent, and depiction of a… dubiously (?) abusive relationship. Third scene: discussion of a clearly abusive relationship from the psychopathic abuser’s perspective, with mentions of kidnapping and involuntary sexual slavery dressed up with very disturbing euphemisms. 
> 
> My beta Kiki said that she felt filthy and needed a shower after reading the third scene. Kiki never felt that way in _any_ of the prior scenes. So _please step carefully_. The summary of the third scene is in the end notes if you want to skip it. Unlike all the others, I engineered this scene so you _can_ skip it and read only the summary.

_March 28, Monday_

She had been checking her phone on and off throughout the entire day, even during class when she knew she should be concentrating. The sun had already set, but she still hadn’t received a reply. Maybe she shouldn’t have expected one in the first place.

Or maybe… Maybe Angelica was caught up with something else. The Weeks trial was starting today, wasn’t it? But Angelica wasn’t involved with _that_ , so there wasn’t a reason for her to be busy… Did she have another case that she was doing research on, and that was why she was busy?

Sally was grasping at straws, and she knew it. Sighing heavily, she dropped her head down on top of Hall’s _Textbook of Medical Physiology_. The words blurred in front of her into an amorphous mass of black on white, indistinguishable. Even when Angelica had been in London, she had never delayed so long before replying Sally’s texts.

A knock on the door. Sally rubbed her eyes. She hastily shoved a leaf of her notes between the pages of the textbook and snapped it close. 

“Coming,” she shouted. It was probably one of her classmates wanting to either ask a favour from her or invite her to some party or another. They never seemed to give up on the latter, no matter how many times Sally told them that she had to study.

When she opened her door, however, it wasn’t any of her classmates. Angelica stood there, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed below her breasts. 

“I,” Sally said. Her mouth went dry. “Uhm,” she said eloquently.

“You texted me,” Angelica said. Her eyes were unreadable even with the slight upward quirk of her mouth. “Right?”

For a moment, Sally wanted to lie. But… no. No, there had been too many lies. The weight of them was practically crushing her even though the warmth of her mother’s embraces still lingered in her bones. She was so tired of lying. She was so tired.

“Yeah,” she said instead. She looked down at herself again, and tugged at the ends of her hair. “Do you… want to come in?”

“Do you want me to come in?”

Did she? Sally had sent that text this morning out of some sort of… she didn’t know what it was. What possessed her to write out _hey_ and then send it to Angelica? She missed her, but… but there was so much she had said the last time they met, and she didn’t know if she could take any of it back. She didn’t know if she wanted to take any of it back, either. She bit her lip.

Angelica waited her out. There was only the sound of arrhythmic breathing between them, and the muted sound of voices coming from the other dorm rooms on the floor. The hallway was deserted; Sally didn’t even have the excuse of inviting Angelica into her room so people wouldn’t see her.

“Come in,” she said finally, making a decision by the very intelligent way of throwing up her hands and going with her instincts. She stepped backwards, ducking her head down and rubbing her knuckles of her eyes. “Sorry. Place is a mess.”

 _She_ was a mess. Angelica was dressed exquisitely in a white blouse with a streak of black that started from the collar and went down to the hem, a black blazer, and tailored pants in the same colour. She was so beautiful, especially in contrast to Sally’s ragged hoodie and sweatpants. 

High-heel shoes clacked against the wooden floorboards as Angelica stepped inside. Sally closed the door. They stared at each other again. Though Angelica was far better at words than Sally was, she didn’t say anything. 

“I,” Sally started. Her voice stuck in her throat. She looked at Angelica’s face again, taking in the unreadable depth of colour in those dark eyes and the half-smile on her mouth. As if her expression was frozen into some sort of strange rictus. As if she was waiting.

After a moment, Sally tugged her fingers through her hair again. Then she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and went down to her knees. Slowly, one leg followed by the other. If Angelica wanted to stop her…

Angelica didn’t stop her. Sally squeezed her eyes shut even tighter, her hands clenching into fists on top of her thighs. “Sorry,” she said, forcing the word out of her closing throat. “Sorry. I… Sorry.”

“Shh,” Angelica murmured. Her long fingers slid into Sally’s curls, nails scraping over her scalp. “Is this what you need right now, Sally?” Her name. Angelica was still using her name even when Sally was on her knees. Sally squeezed her eyes shut. Gave a choked sob from the very depth of her lungs.

“Sorry,” she said again, because there was nothing else left inside her except for that word.

 _Click-clack_. Angelica’s thigh close enough now for Sally to feel the warmth of her skin through layers of cloth and air. Angelica’s hand tightening on the strands, shifting her a little closer.

“Tell me what you need, my girl,” Angelica said, and Sally let out another sob because she did something right, didn’t she? Angelica said she was hers again, and so she must have… must have…

Falling forward, her face buried into Angelica’s thigh. Her lips parted as Angelica guided her upwards, forcing her to straighten her back and lift slightly up from her thighs. More warmth, the edge of a narrow hip. Nails scraped over Sally’s scalp, and Sally tilted her head by instinct. She scraped her teeth over the hottest part of Angelica’s body, closed her mouth around Angelica’s clit through slacks and panties.

“Please,” she begged, because there was only dry cloth on her tongue and she needed more. “Please, ma’am. Please. Let me make it up to you.”

Heels clicking. The heat disappeared. The hand shifted from her hair down to her cheek, a smooth thumb rubbing over her jaw.

“Open your eyes for me, my girl,” Angelica said.

Sally did even though she didn’t want to. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, the words tripping out of her throat. Too high-pitched, practically panicked. She sounded like a child. “Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry—”

Angelica’s thumb pressed over her mouth. Sally’s teeth clacked shut with a loud sound. Her neck hurt from looking up, and it no longer did because Angelica’s eyes were suddenly on level with hers. Angelica was kneeling down next to her.

“Ma’am,” Sally gasped out. This wasn’t what she wanted. What was it she wanted? Sally didn’t know anymore.

“This should never be about debts,” Angelica told her quietly, her hand an anchor keeping Sally on earth instead of spiralling into the approaching hurricane. “This should never be about making it up to me, my girl. If we are doing this, it’s because we both want it for the sake of it. No other reason.”

Closing her eyes, Sally pressed Angelica’s hand harder against her cheek. “Sorry,” she said again, helplessly. “Sorry, sorry. I wanted to… I wanted…”

“Tell me what you want,” Angelica said. It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t even a request. It was a _plea_ , and Sally sobbed again because that wasn’t how things were supposed to go, right?

“Nothing makes sense, ma’am,” she said. “Nothing makes sense.”

“C’mere,” Angelica said. Her hand moved to Sally’s shoulder, then slipped under her arm. They stood up together, Sally leaning against Angelica, and they stumbled backwards. They fell onto Sally’s narrow bed, and Sally instinctively curled up against her Dom even though they hadn’t had the chance to do this enough for it to become habit.

Angelica kissed her temple. Soft, sweet, her lips and breath warm against Sally’s skin.

“You should hate me,” Sally said, because she believed it and she didn’t deserve any of this affection or kindness, and Angelica should know that.

“Maybe,” Angelica said. Her hand splayed out between Sally’s shoulderblades, fingers trailing downwards along the knobs of her spine. “How about you tell me why I should hate you, and I decide on whether it’s true?”

Sally didn’t want to tell her, because she was selfish and she wanted to stay like this and Angelica wouldn’t want to stay like this if she was properly reminded. But Angelica asked, and Sally was tired and confused and she just wanted things to make sense again. If Angelica left again, then things would make sense.

“I said a lot of things that hurt you,” she murmured. “I made you cry. I hurt you. And…” She took a deep breath. “I know all that, and I still think I was right about what I said.”

“Mm,” Angelica said. The back of her knuckles brushed over Sally’s cheek. “What else?”

Opening her eyes, Sally looked at her. But Angelica’s expression had turned unreadable again, so Sally bit her lip, and turned away. “I… I’m not a good person, ma’am,” she said, voice even softer than before. “You said it just now that this… this should only be done for its own sake. I know that this should be done only when it’s properly agreed on. But I… I didn’t. I broke those rules. And I… I didn’t tell you even though you asked me to.”

Angelica’s thumb run over her mouth again. “Tell me what it is you did,” Angelica said. Now that was an order; a sharper command than anything Angelica had ever given her throughout the time they had known each other. 

“Please,” Sally said. She shook her head. “Please.”

“Put it into words for me, my girl,” Angelica said, even firmer now. “Say it properly. Describe everything to me.”

Sally never wanted to put it into words. If she described all that had happened between her and… _him_ for the past year, it would all become real. If she didn’t put it into words, then she could pretend that none of it was real. She could still ignore it. Even though that was getting harder and harder, even though now it was nearly impossible, there was still a _chance_.

“No,” she said, shaking her head again and squeezing her eyes shut. “No, ma’am. No. I can’t do it.”

Though she couldn’t see it, she knew that Angelica was looking at her; was staring at her. The weight of her gaze was heavy, but it didn’t suffocate, somehow. It was almost comforting, really.

There was that feather-light brush of fingers over her cheeks again.

“Alright,” Angelica said. “I want you to do something for me, Sally. For me. Not because you want to make it up to me, or because you want me to forgive you. Can you do something for me just because it will be for me?”

Not for… Sally licked her lips. She ran the words over and over her own mind. For Angelica. Just for her Dom, for no reason because she wanted to do something for her Dom. It wouldn’t help Sally make it up to her. Angelica might still hate her after that. Could she do it?

The answer was easy: “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“Good girl,” Angelica said, and her lips pressed against Sally’s brow. “Now I want you to open your eyes. Stand up on the bed, and kneel against the edge without touching it. Alright?”

Three steps. A knot loosened in Sally’s chest. Things made sense. There was just three things she needed to do. She breathed easier. 

“Yes,” she said. She obeyed, keeping her back straight and her hands tucked together above her ass. Even with her sweats, the ground was cold beneath her shins when compared with the sheets and Angelica’s body, but none of that mattered.

Angelica’s hand stroked over her hair. “Stay there,” she murmured. “I’m still here.”

Her heels clicked loudly. The room was too small for the sound to be used to gauge distance, but Sally could still guess: to the door, and the snap of the lock falling into place; to the closet, and cloth rustling as she rummaged through it. Sally kept her eyes closed because she only had to open them to kneel.

“Open your eyes again for me,” Angelica said. When Sally did, Angelica was holding a scarf in her hands; the same one she had sent over from London while she was there, and which Sally had never used because it didn’t smell of Angelica at all and she didn’t want to be reminded of her, and yet she couldn’t help but pack it into her suitcase when she first came to New York anyway…

Too many thoughts. “Close your eyes,” Angelica said, and Sally focused on that. The smooth, cool satin slid over her eyes. It was pulled tight, the knot digging into the back of Sally’s skull when Angelica let go of it. But that was another small discomfort.

“Now, my girl,” Angelica said. Her voice sounded as if she was really close and really far at the same time. “Breathe according to the rhythm of my hand.”

Hand? There was no hand- oh, there it was, long fingers splayed over her chest. Sally was suddenly aware of her own heartbeat, hummingbird-quick, and her breaths: ragged, uneven. When did that happen?

Tap. Sally inhaled without needing to think. Tap. Exhale. Tap. Inhale. The space in between every tap was precise even though Sally couldn’t think of numbers right now. Her lungs had to fill to their full capacity. Exhaling was harder; the air rushed out too fast, and she had to wait a few moments for the tap before she could breathe in again. Not good. 

But Angelica didn’t scold her. She didn’t say a word. There was only her hand, tapping constantly and consistently. Sally focused on that; focused on her own lungs. Tap. Inhale. Tap. Exhale.

Her eyes were closed and there was only darkness, but everything was suddenly sharper anyway. The noise in her head stopped. Tap. Inhale. Angelica’s hand was the singular point of warmth. Tap. Exhale. Angelica’s breathing, following hers. Tap. Inhale.

Brush of lips over her temple. Tap. Exhale. Sally felt herself starting to float. Tap. Exhale. Angelica in front of her, a silhouette Sally could see even without need of her eyes. Tap. Inhale. Solid and comforting and _there_.

“You’re doing very well,” Angelica said. Now her voice wasn’t far away. It surrounded Sally entirely, as if the darkness was empty until it was filled with Angelica. “Do you still need to concentrate on your breathing?”

Tap. Inhale. Tap. Exhale. Sally detached herself from the thoughts. She felt-watched her chest following the fingers, expanding and contracting slowly.

“No, ma’am,” she murmured.

“Good,” Angelica said. Another kiss, this time over Sally’s lips. Chaste and dry. When they pulled away, Angelica’s exhale ghosted against Sally’s mouth just as Sally breathed out as well. Perfectly in sync. The grey drew in ever closer.

Nails over Sally’s scalp. She tipped her head back, following the touch. Her breathing didn’t change.

“Something more difficult this time,” Angelica said, a whisper coiling over Sally’s ear. “Listen to my heels.”

Click, click, click. Slightly faster than the tapping of the fingers, with barely over half a second between each sound. Louder, too. Sally nodded.

“I’m listening,” she murmured.

“Your heartbeat, my girl,” Angelica said. “Let your heartbeat follow the sound of my heels.”

That was… Angelica had tried to teach her this, the last month before she left for London. Sally could practically see it: her visit to New York, Angelica’s hand on her arm as she brought her around Columbia, the last straw that urged her to send in her application; her lavish loft in a townhouse near midtown Manhattan with its carpeted floors and the muted sound of her heels.

Sally hadn’t succeeded then. But now… now, maybe she could do better. _Be_ better.

She nodded. She focused. The world, barely existing before, completely disappeared. Even the fingers vanished. Even the sound of her own breathing faded from her consciousness. There was only her own heartbeat, shallow and too fast. There was only the sound of the heels, clicking. Every click evenly spaced.

 _Heartbeat. Heels_. Sally was barely aware of her own lips moving, mouthing the words. _Heartbeat. Heels._ Over and over. Nothing else in the world mattered. Her neck ached from carrying the weight of her slumped head. Ghost of a thumb on her skin, soothing. _Heartbeat. Heels_.

Her heart slowed down. She didn’t know what she did. She didn’t know how she did it. Nothing was entirely conscious anymore. She had reached a depth within herself that she hadn’t even realised existed. And here…

There was only the sound of a beating heart and clicking heels. There was only an order, Angelica’s voice coiling around her body. There was only Angelica, her presence surrounding her entirely. 

Here, everything made perfect sense.

“Ma’am,” she breathed.

“My best girl,” Angelica said. Her voice was crystal clear. Her heels did not stop their clicking. Slide of fingers down Sally’s side, solid and ghostly at the same time. Everything that was contradictory wasn’t in this half-space.

Press of lips against hers. Sally’s mouth opened. She exhaled. Her breathing was in sync. Her heartbeat was in sync. She followed orders. She had been good enough to earn back the name Angelica always used.

She was _good_.

Fingers through strands of her hair. Sally turned her head and nuzzled against the thin wrist. She waited for more orders.

“Tell me about your deal with Jefferson,” Angelica said.

Jefferson? Who was Jefferson? No one existed except for Angelica- no, there he was, a figure- no, a silhouette- no, a figure. Sally frowned. The thing at the edge of her vision was caught in between flatness and fullness, two-dimensional and three-dimensional both. That was strange. That wasn’t what Angelica was asking for.

She licked her lips. “He pays for my college up until the end of medical school,” she said. Her voice sounded steady to her own ears, broken up periodically when she needed to breathe according to the rhythm she had set. This was entirely normal; entirely right. “In return, I appear on his arm once in a while, and I pretend to be Martha for him whenever he calls.”

Martha. She sighed. “Martha was so pretty when I first met her,” she said, just a little wistfully.

“Tell me how this deal was made,” Angelica said.

Now that was a little more difficult. That figure of Jefferson was bothering her. It made sense that he was flickering between being real and being a character. Why did it make sense? Never mind.

“I went to him more than a year ago after none of the scholarships I applied for was approved,” she said. “Columbia had already accepted me. You were in London, ma’am. I went to his office. He listened to me. He said that he couldn’t help because he had no connections with people in the medical profession. I stood up. I don’t know what happened, but he looked at me and he said, turn around. He said, sit down. He touched my cheek. He said, I can give you a deal.”

Angelica’s breathing broke the rhythm. Sally jerked as well, confused, but it didn’t happen again. She settled back down into the comforting darkness.

“Alright,” Angelica said. “Tell me how you ended up Domming him.”

Ah. _Ah_. So that was why Jefferson kept shifting in her mind. No, that was only part of the reason. Sally frowned again, but mentally shrugged of the thought with the next tap of Angelica’s fingers.

“We were in bed,” she said. “I realised I didn’t want him. I hit him. He liked it. I looked into his eyes and I recognised what he was. I know I should’ve stopped, then. I didn’t, because I was scared he’d take the money away. Later, after we had sex,” her voice didn’t trip over that word, and she didn’t even know why she noted that, “I told him that he should’ve made the terms clearly. He said, I don’t know what you’re talking about. He said, nothing between Martha and me had ever been a game.”

Brush of fingers over her temple.

“Tell me why you thought you had to do it,” Angelica said.

“Money,” Sally said, without needing to think at all. “He could take the money away whenever he likes. But if I do this… if I do it right, then he would want to please me. He would want to do anything I want him to. I’ll have…” she paused, remembered to breathe, and frowned. What was the word?

“Control,” she said, hesitant for the first time. “Some kind of control.”

“Mm,” Angelica said. Her breath wisped over Sally’s cheek. “Tell me why you thought you needed that control.”

That figure of Jefferson was filling out. So he was three-dimensional, then. A fully-fleshed human being. Sally could deal with that.

“He makes me feel dirty,” she said. “Having sex with him makes me feel dirty. He crawls under my skin and I can’t get rid of him. I need a way to crawl under his, too.”

Licking her lips again, Sally noticed something. “My throat is dry, ma’am,” she said.

“I know,” Angelica said. Sally thought, for the briefest moment, that she meant more than just the need for water. It didn’t make sense, though, so she dismissed it.

“Just one last thing,” Angelica said. “Tell me what you know about how Jefferson got his money.”

Sally’s eyes shifted under the blindfold, searching in the darkness. Her mind reached out, and caught something.

“A lot of it is his own inheritance,” she said. “But the rest of it is… is Martha’s money. Martha’s father’s money.”

Angelica hummed. Her lips pressed against Sally’s temple. “Tell me about your biological relationship with Martha,” she said.

“She’s my half-sister,” Sally said, because that was simple. “We have different Mommas.”

“You have the same father,” Angelica said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So Martha’s father is also your father.”

Sally cocked her head to the side. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Martha’s father’s money should have been…” Angelica trailed off. Her voice didn’t lilt into a question. It didn’t have to.

Everything, absolutely everything, _snapped_ back into place. The darkness didn’t as much retreat as it completely disappeared from one breath to the next. Sally’s entire body _shuddered_ , and she bent over. Angelica caught her with the hand on her chest, still tapping. Sally checked her breathing – it was still steadily following that rhythm. Her heartbeat was in sync with the clicks of the heels. Her hands scrambled for the blindfold.

When she took it off, Angelica was smiling down at her. She was seated on the edge of the bed. There were tears on her face.

“Do you know what to do now?” Angelica asked. 

“I,” Sally swallowed hard. “I should… I should force him to give me,” no, “give _us_ Father’s money. But… but the will said it should go to Martha. And it was so long ago, how do you contest a will that was executed so long ago? And I don’t… I don’t know anything about inheritance laws or anything.”

Angelica smiled. She leaned forward, shoulders shaking, and kissed Sally full on the lips.

Pulling back, her lips widened further into a grin. “I’m a lawyer, my girl,” she said. Her fingers brushed over Sally’s jaw. “Will you let me help that way?”

 _Let_ her help? Why would Angelica think… oh. Right. Sally closed her eyes, leaning forward and resting her head against Angelica’s knee. Her breathing was unwinding from the tight control she had on it, and her exhale shuddered out rapidly over dark skin.

“Please,” she said. Then, again: “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Angelica said. Her fingers carded through Sally’s curls, and she cupped the back of her neck. Sally looked up without being nudged to do so.

“You don’t hate me?” she asked. “You don’t hate me for… for what I’ve been doing?”

Closing her eyes, Angelica bent herself into half and leaned in. Their foreheads touched, and her breath ghosted over Sally’s lips.

“My girl,” she said softly. “I asked you if you were willing to do it just for me. For no other reason than just wanting to please me. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sally nodded even though she didn’t know where the conversation is going.

“But I broke my own rules,” Angelica told her, voice soft and eyes dark. “I was a hypocrite. I said that we shouldn’t do anything except for its own sake. But everything I did in the last two hours was because I wanted to get you to a state where you can tell me everything. I wanted to lead you to an answer I had already found, and get you to accept my help.”

Pulling back, she cupped Sally’s cheek again. Her smile was tremulous and uncertain. “Does that make me a bad person?”

Sally opened her mouth. Then she closed it again, thinking seriously. Because it was _true_ , everything Angelica said. Angelica manipulated her; made use of their relationship to get Sally to do what she wanted. She… she did to Sally the exact same thing that Sally had been doing to Jefferson for the past year.

But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t nearly the same. 

“I don’t understand,” Sally said. The answer was there, but it was in a faraway corner in her mind and she couldn’t reach it.

Angelica’s hands dropped to her own lap. She tipped her head up, and stared at the dull white ceiling of Sally’s dorm room.

“Sometimes people do bad things for good reasons,” Angelica said. “Sometimes people break rules, or even laws, for reasons that are not just understandable, but valid enough to excuse their actions.”

She paused. “Look at it this way,” she said, looking back down to Sally. “Say that you punch someone.” Before Sally could protest that she wouldn’t do that, Angelica put her thumb over her lips. “Listen first.”

“Okay,” Sally said.

“Say you punch someone,” Angelica repeated. “But the punch has different meanings depending on the circumstances at which it was thrown. You punching a random person on the street who has done nothing to you is very different from you punching me, and that’s very different from you punching someone who has you held against the wall.”

Sally blinked.

“In law, the first circumstance, in which you punched a random person who had done nothing to you, is physical assault,” Angelica continued. “You punching me is called physical abuse. You punching the person holding you against the wall is _self-defence_.”

Like the disappearance of the darkness, Angelica’s point snapped together in a sudden rush. Suddenly, Sally understood.

“Self-defence,” she repeated. Her shoulders shook, and she dropped her head back on Angelica’s knee. “I knew all that. I _knew_ all that.”

Why couldn’t she have seen any of this until Angelica pointed it out to her? Why was she so—

“You’re not stupid, my girl,” Angelica said, because she could read minds. “Stop thinking that.”

“But,” Sally protested immediately, lifting her head up. “I _knew_ all that,” she repeated again. She wasn’t a lawyer, but anyone with a brain would know that different circumstances meant that actions should be judged differently.

“Just because you have the pieces doesn’t mean you can see how they go together,” Angelica said, leaning in to brush her lips over Sally’s brow. “That’s why you need another pair of eyes.”

She sighed, and leaned their foreheads together. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve left you alone for too long.”

Sally shook her head. Reaching up, she wound her arms around Angelica’s shoulders. “You didn’t,” she said. None of them did; not her mother, not her brother. Not Angelica. “I just… I wanted to do everything by myself. I just want to… to be good enough to do everything by myself. But…”

Her shoulders shook. This time, she _did_ laugh – a little raspy, a little rusty, but sincere nonetheless. “Sometimes my classmates come to me to ask me to explain some concepts the professor went through with them,” she said. “I never thought… I never thought that it made them lesser. Not once.”

Looking up, she gave Angelica a crooked smile. “I _knew_ all that,” she said again.

“Yeah,” Angelica said. Her hand splayed on Sally’s chest again. “You know it now. You know it better.”

Closing her eyes, Sally nodded. “Yeah,” she echoed. It had taken her a year to do it properly, but… she swallowed. She sagged against Angelica’s knees against, resting her cheek on top of her thighs.

“Hold me?” she asked. “Please?”

Angelica’s hands nudged under her arms. Sally stood without really wanting to, but Angelica’s arms wrapped around her, and they moved back onto the bed, falling onto it together. Sally shifted until she was lying on top of the older woman, cheek resting on top of chest, and Angelica’s leg swung over her hips.

“Sure,” she said. “Of course.”

It wasn’t all that funny. To be honest, it wasn’t funny at all, despite the dryness of Angelica’s voice. But Sally found herself laughing nonetheless, burying her face between Angelica’s breasts; feeling Angelica’s own quiet chuckles ghost over the strands of her hair. It felt good to laugh.

She wasn’t free yet. But she could be. She could be.

That was more than she had had for so long.

***

_March 28, Monday_

“Laurens’s and Mulligan’s testimonies sound pretty damning,” Madison murmured. His hand stroked through Thomas’s hair slowly, starting from the scalp to the ends and starting back up again. 

“Yeah,” Thomas said. He straightened a little from where he was leaning against Madison’s legs, lips curving into a smile as he lifted his eyes to meet those dark eyes. “Looks like I have the case in the bag, actually. Especially since I’m pretty sure Hamilton came up with his opening statement on the fly.”

“Oh?” Madison raised an eyebrow. His hand moved down from Thomas’s hair to curl around the back of his neck. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

“Mm,” Thomas said. He tipped his head back, letting out a shuddering breath as Madison’s fingers slipped beneath the braided leather collar – made by Madison’s own hands – to stroke over his pulse. “He just…”

A thumb pressed lightly over his Adam’s apple. Thomas swallowed. His voice died in his throat. “James,” he gasped. “I can’t… I can’t think like this.”

“Of course you can,” Madison said, sounding amused. His hand splayed out over Thomas’s throat, and moved even lower. The soft cashmere sweater – Madison’s sweater, a little too wide for Thomas, especially at the neck – stretched to accommodate his hand. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a choked sob when Madison flicked a nail over one nipple, then the next.

“ _James_ ,” he breathed. “Please.”

“Tell me about Hamilton’s opening statement, Thomas,” Madison said. His thumb and finger pinched Thomas’s nipple, and Thomas gasped, falling forward. He would’ve smacked his face into Madison’s knee and broken his glasses if Madison hadn’t grabbed his shoulder with his other hand, steadying him.

Thomas’s head was spinning. He opened his mouth, scrambling to find words to describe Hamilton’s argument, to _obey_. But then Madison’s foot was against his crotch, robbing against his cock through the thin boxer-briefs he was wearing, and all that escaped Thomas was a sharp, needy cry.

“Please,” he begged. The foot pressed even harder, leather sole tracing the line of Thomas’s cock. Thomas panted, squeezing his eyes shut. They burned so much, and he needed… he needed… Madison pinched his other nipple, rolled it between his fingers, and all Thomas could do was _shake_.

He felt like he was going to shatter. It felt so good. Everything felt so good. There was electricity in his veins, replacing every single drop of blood, and Thomas buried his face into Madison’s thigh. His hands remained clasped behind his back – Madison told him he shouldn’t move them – and his nails clawed at his own wrists.

“Shhh,” Madison breathed into his hair when a sob ripped through Thomas’s throat. “Shhh. Lift your head up, baby doll. Let me look at you.”

Slowly, Thomas obeyed. Madison was still grinding his foot against his cock, every nudge making him shudder even more. He didn’t know what his face looked like, but Madison was looking at him with eyes so dark that he could drown in their depths.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Madison said, and Thomas felt all of the breath in his lungs go out at the curse. Madison rarely swore. He did this. He made him swear. 

Was that good?

“C’mon now, darlin’,” Madison murmured. His thumb trailed over Thomas’s mouth; Thomas knew his cue by now: he parted his lips and took it inside. He licked the soft pad, and moaned around it when Madison put more pressure on his cock, practically stepping on it.

“Tell me about Hamilton’s argument.” Nail scraping over the line of Thomas’s throat, sinking into the skin right above his thundering pause. “Be good for me.”

Good. He could be good. He could follow Madison’s rules. Madison’s rules were the only ones he had left, and he would… he would follow them and he would be _good_.

Thomas closed his eyes. He forced himself to breathe, unconsciously opening his mouth to let Madison’s thumb slip out. He had to be good. He pushed away the pleasure coiling at the base of his spine; shoved the heavy ache in his balls out of his mind; boxed away the way his cock was leaking hard enough to wet the cloth of his underwear.

“I think they didn’t expect it,” he said. His voice wasn’t as measured as it should be, trembling at every other syllable, but he was still speaking. “They didn’t expect what I said, I mean.”

He licked his lips. That wasn’t what Madison asked. He tried again. “Hamilton’s opening argument was all about liberty. The right for people to choose what to do with their own bodies. Which is complete bullshit from a legal standpoint.” And which Thomas knew was completely false, though he couldn’t put into words properly _why_. “He said…”

What was it that Hamilton had said? Ah, there it was; Thomas’s memory never failed him.

“‘The prosecution in his haste to condemn our client has instead condemned the victim of the case,’” he quoted, opening his eyes to roll them. When Madison’s eyes turned up into one of his small smiles, Thomas grinned back. He nuzzled the hand cupping his cheek.

“Honestly, the whole thing doesn’t make any sense,” he continued. “Liberty isn’t defined as being able to do whatever you like with your life, and he tried to define it as that in a courtroom in front of people whose jobs is to curtail the rights of people to do as they wish.” Snorting, he shrugged.

“I’m surprised Franklin didn’t throw him out of court.” 

Madison made a soft, considering noise. Thomas looked up hopefully. The foot was still resting on his crotch, even though it wasn’t moving. And he knew better to try to shift his hips until Madison told him he could.

“What about Burr?” Madison asked. “What did Burr say?”

“Hamilton said something about ‘assistant counsel’, and then Burr jumped up and corrected him to ‘co-counsel’.” Thomas said. Was that important? He wasn’t very sure. “Burr was the one who cross-examined Laurens and Mulligan after me, though.”

“Having Hamilton do it would be too much of a conflict of interests,” Madison said. His smile widened even further, and Thomas couldn’t help but laugh. Yeah, _conflict of interests_. That was a hell of a thing, wasn’t it?

It didn’t matter. Madison said that it didn’t matter; Madison said that Thomas could stay objective enough to ensure that justice was properly carried out, whether Weeks was guilty or not. If Madison said so, then it would happen. There was no way Madison could be wrong.

“Anyway,” he said, pushing away the ache in his calves and knees because he wasn’t allowed to move yet. There was his still-hard cock and the pressure on it, too, but he pushed that away before it could fully register. “Burr tried, really. He really played the ‘circumstantial’ part of circumstantial evidence to the hilt. But…” He hesitated, frowning.

“But?” Madison asked.

“Juries like simple stories,” Thomas shrugged. “Rich guy gone broke, killed lover to collect insurance money to save himself from insolvency. It’s something they have heard before, and so they can accept it easier. Burr is trying to paint a far more complex story in which the death was an accident and everything that came before it was just ‘wrong place, wrong time’. It stretches belief. Occam’s Razor.”

“Thomas,” Madison said. His fingers trailed over the line of Thomas’s jaw, nudging his chin up until their eyes met again. Thomas blinked.

“Mm?”

“Do you think that Weeks is innocent?”

That was… a question Thomas didn’t expect. He stared at Madison for a long moment, wondering which answer Madison would rather him give.

“Rule number three,” Madison reminded. His thumb tapped lightly at a spot beneath Thomas’s ear, shifting strands of hair away until the ends tickled his skin. Thomas pushed away the shudder before it could manifest.

“It doesn’t really matter to me,” he said, obeying the third rule which stated that he must always give honest answers. “Justice is justice, truth is truth. What I think has no bearing on either.”

“But it does,” Madison said. When Thomas blinked, his hand sank into his curls again, stroking through the strands. His thumb brushed over the curve of his ear. “Juries come to their conclusions based upon how convincingly the prosecution and the defence fight their cases. The conviction of the lawyers directly determines their conviction.”

“No,” Thomas said before he could stop himself. He ducked his head, lifting up one shoulder so he could press his nose and mouth against the soft wool of the sweater, breathing in Madison’s scent for a long moment to calm himself. Rule number five: it was okay to disagree as long as he didn’t get too upset about it.

Anyway: “The reason for the jury system is because it’s not fair to allow one person to determine the fate of another. Six will determine the fate of one person. If the majority within six agrees, then it should be truth, shouldn’t it? It should be justice. A decision made by four has a greater chance of being universalised than a decision made by one.”

The reason why Thomas had won his last case was because he had been speaking the truth; a truth agreed upon by all six jurors who were part of that trial. The reason his closing statement became so famous was because it was a truth that was universally agreed upon.

Right?

“Yet every single person can have a different perspective on the truth,” Madison told him, voice low and soft. His hand was soothing in Thomas’s hair, and yet Thomas could feel the tremors starting again anyway. A completely different kind than before. “Every single person can have their different reasons for agreeing to something. Does that still make that something true and just?”

Did it? Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. He swallowed, and tried to focus on the weight and feel of the collar on his neck. But it was…

It wasn’t enough.

“Laws change,” Madison continued in the same quiet tone. “Some laws remain the same, true, but many of them change through time. Even scientific theories change over time. What was once seen to be truth, what used to be universally agreed upon, is proven to be wrong.”

_Consent is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot hold up in this court._

His own words. He wrote them himself. He spoke them today in front of a judge, jury, witnesses, audience, Hamilton and Burr; a veritable crowd. He believed in them. He thought he was saying something true.

But now his hands were shaking and he didn’t know why. His hands were shaking so hard that his shoulders were seizing up. 

If there was no truth, if there was no ideal, then… then what was Thomas left with? If he could not hold onto ideals, then…

Madison’s rules. But weren’t those ideals- no, no, he couldn’t let himself think that. He couldn’t.

“James,” he finally managed to choke out. “Did I do something wrong?”

Lifting his head, he met those dark eyes for a moment before he ducked his head back down. He pushed his nose into the sweater again.

“Please tell me if I did something wrong,” he pleaded. “Please, James—”

“Shhh,” Madison shushed him again. He nudged Thomas’s chin up, and brushed his thumb over the thin skin underneath Thomas’s eyes, managing to not dislodge the glasses somehow.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said softly. “You did very well today, in fact. You gave a wonderful argument. You’ve set a strong foundation for your case.”

Thomas opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Madison lifted the glasses off of his face. His eyes crossed a little at the sudden blurring of the edges of the world, and snapped back into focus when Madison kissed him. Thomas gasped, arching up, and Madison’s hands closed around his upper arm, gripping tight as he lifted Thomas off his calves so he was resting his entire weight on his knees. 

His shoe dragged over Thomas’s cock. Thomas gasped, head tipping backwards, and Madison’s mouth moved down. Lips closed upon his pulse, a tongue slipped beneath the collar to taste the skin there, and Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and couldn’t stop the whine that rose from his throat.

“What do you want for your reward, Thomas?” Madison asked, voice slightly muffled by his lips against Thomas’s neck. 

Reward? Thomas didn’t know what he did to deserve a reward, but if Madison said that he did… But surely he did something wrong? Surely…

“May I…” he trailed off into incoherent stutters as Madison’s teeth sank down into his skin, right over the hollow of his throat that would be covered by his tie. “James, may I… may I make you feel good?”

“Mm,” Madison hummed against his skin. “How do you want to do that?”

That was easy. “My mouth,” Thomas said. “You like my mouth, right?”

Madison paused. Then he chuckled, soft and low, against Thomas’s skin. The vibration made Thomas shiver all over again.

“I do,” he said. He let go of Thomas’s arms, setting him back down carefully back onto his calves. When Thomas looked up at him, blinking blearily at the loss of contact, Madison laughed again. His thumb traced Thomas’s lips. 

“You can move your hands,” he said, and spread his legs.

Thomas fell forward immediately. His fingers splayed out of Madison’s broad thighs, feeling his solidity through his slacks. It took him a few moments before he could convince himself to move upwards to Madison’s belt, undoing the buckle and pulling down the zip.

Like Madison taught him the first time, he tucked his teeth behind his lips. Then he leaned in, and mouthed the heavy, growing bulge behind Madison’s trousers.

_Inherently non-reproductive… there’s no purpose to it… people will soon come to their senses._

__His own voice; his own words. They came pretty frequently nowadays, especially when he had the weight of Madison’s erection on his tongue like this. Thomas didn’t mind; he relished in them instead. He had been wrong before, because he had been following a set of rules that he had abandoned by now. Madison said this was more than alright; this was what Madison wanted, and so…

_Consent is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed…_

He needed to _focus_. Thomas impatiently pushed the voices away. He inhaled deeply as he sank down as much as he could on Madison’s cock, taking as much of the length in as possible, sucking lightly with every single inch. He still couldn’t take most of it without help—

There, Madison’s hand, at the back of his neck. Fingers twisting on the collar, pressing the leather over Thomas’s throat at precisely the right spot to help him relax his gag reflex. Thomas breathed in again, this time locking the heavy salt-and-musk of Madison’s scent into his lungs.

Honestly, he could stay like this forever. Things were simple here, with his face buried into Madison’s crotch, and Madison’s erection sliding into his throat. Thomas moaned, eyes closing, and he tried to lick and suck as much as he could, bobbing his head back and forth.

“God, _Thomas_ ,” Madison breathed. His voice sounded ragged, a broken edge coming to it like it did every single time Thomas did this for him. Thomas hummed, encouraging, and sucked harder. He moaned again.

And the sound grew louder and even more sincere when Madison’s foot ground down on his cock. Thomas nearly choked, shoving his face straight down until Madison’s wiry hairs were tickling his nose. He pulled back – less than he did the last time – and breathed hard through his nose. His head was spinning.

There was a cold chill twining around his spine. He ignored that, too. Madison’s rules were more important than the world’s.

The world definitely didn’t matter when Madison’s foot was rubbing against him like this; when those long fingers were tangled around strands of Thomas’s hair, holding his head still as Madison fucked his throat. Nothing mattered except for the sounds of Madison’s pleasure, the stuttering breaths that escaped him; the quiet, feeble _Thomas_ that echoed in the room when Thomas swirled his tongue around the head of his cock.

Unlike the very first time they did this, Madison took a while to come. Thomas didn’t mind; he learned by the third to ignore the ache in his jaw and the rawness of his throat. He knew how and when to hum – when Madison’s cock was buried as deeply as it could – and to listen to Madison’s voice to know what was good. He knew, too, that Madison liked it when Thomas scraped his nails over his thighs and held onto him tightly.

He was getting better at this. He was learning to be good. That was fair, right? Madison was always so good for him. Even now: his foot rubbing lightly over Thomas’s crotch, over and over again, making him moan helplessly, his hips jerking towards the hard leather sole.

“Thomas,” Madison’s voice had a tremulous edge now. “Thomas, I’m going to—”

“Mm,” Thomas said. He breathed in deeply through his nose, and sank down as much as he could. He hummed again, one hand clenching tight onto Madison’s thigh, while the other reaching beneath his erection to stroke his thumb over the heavy balls.

Madison came down his throat. Thomas learned how to swallow, too. Not very well, though; he could feel warmth spilling over the corners of his lips, sliding down the sides of his mouth. When he pulled back, Madison’s taste was heavy on his tongue, bitter and salty. Instinctively, Thomas boxed up the urge to throw up.

Instead, he tipped his head up, meeting Madison’s eyes. He licked his lips slowly, cleaning them as much as he could. Madison’s eyes were wide and dark as he stared down at him, and Thomas drew his bottom lip between his teeth.

And bit. He lowered his lashes for good measure.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Madison said, and that was a _growl_. Thomas ducked his head, half-shy, half pretending to hide his grin. 

Then he _yelped_ , because Madison had grabbed him. Thomas found himself being lifted off of his feet and turned around. His arms flailed a little in the air before he felt himself settled again with his back against Madison’s broad chest, a strong arm wrapping around his waist.

“Tease,” Madison accused, and Thomas’s laugh turned in a groan when Madison scraped his nails hard over his underwear. His hips jerked up, and he gasped, lungs desperate for air when Madison’s teeth sank down into his shoulder. He could feel the blood vessels break beneath the skin, another bruise added onto the collection on his shoulders.

“Look at you,” Madison murmured into his ear. “Look at how wet you are, baby doll.” Another rough stroke over his cock through his underwear, sliding the silk over the dripping head over and over, soaking the cloth and ruining it entirely.

Thomas felt like he was being ruined, too. He writhed as much as he could, but he was trapped in Madison’s grasp, unable to breathe properly. Long fingers crept beneath the blue sweater, nails scraping over Thomas’s stomach before twisting one nipple then the next, and Thomas cried out, wordless and helpless. His head was spinning.

He had broad shoulders. He was tall. But here… here, with Madison holding him like this, Thomas felt _small_. Enveloped and surrounded entirely, devoured by Madison’s teeth and hands and touch and his very breath.

A sob wrenched from his throat. “James,” he gasped. “James, James. _James_.”

“Tell me how it feels,” Madison said, his voice heavy and rough in Thomas’s ear. “Tell me how it feels, Thomas.”

“So good,” Thomas said. He jerked his head to the side, the rest of his words twisting into a choked scream when Madison raked his nails over the cloth covering his aching balls. “Feels… feels…”

Oh God, he couldn’t even _speak_.

“My eloquent District Attorney, at a loss of words,” Madison chuckled against his skin. He nosed Thomas’s neck, rubbing the collar against his skin. Thomas sobbed again, unable to stop himself even if he tried, and his hips juddered hard when Madison’s fingers slipped behind his cock to nudge at his hole.

“Please,” he begged. He didn’t know what for, but he knew that only Madison could give it to him. “Please, please.”

Another twist at his nipples, and Madison’s finger pressed through the thin cloth of Thomas’s underwear to circle his entrance. Pushed in, just a little, and Thomas cried out again.

“I can keep you like this for hours, you know,” Madison told him. “Just like this, writhing in my arms. Keep you close to the edge without letting you fall off.” He rubbed the rim of Thomas’s hole, and his thumb’s nail flicked over his balls. 

“ _James_!” Thomas keened. “Please, let me come. Let me come, please.”

“Oh, I will,” Madison said. His teeth scraped over Thomas’s neck. “God, do you know how much I want you? Do you know how much you make me want?”

His hand shifted back to Thomas’s cock, knuckles running over the underside of it. The silk was completely soaked by now, and Thomas sobbed hard. Was he supposed to answer the question? He didn’t know. He couldn’t even think.

Madison’s hand slipped out from underneath the sweater. It sank into Thomas’s hair, yanking his head to the side. Thomas whimpered, lips parting, and Madison took his mouth, claimed every single inch of it even as his hand cupped Thomas’s cock. He squeezed, and stroked upwards, twisting hard at the head.

Thomas came so hard his vision whited out entirely. He was vaguely aware of Madison’s hand still rubbing him, urging every drop of come out of him. He whined, head dropping backwards and mouth growing too lax to kiss. He shook his head hard because no, it just hurt now, it just _hurt_.

He slumped down against Madison’s chest, cheek pressed against a broad shoulder and Madison’s heart beating rapid but steady beneath his shoulder. He tried to open his eyes, but it was too much effort, especially when Madison urged him to lift his hips so he could pull off his underwear.

“Look,” Madison nudged his cheek. Thomas stubbornly kept his eyes shut. “Thomas,” Madison said again, and this time, it was an order.

The pair of boxer-briefs were entirely soaked, practically dripping. Thomas wrinkled his nose, and Madison laughed, kissing him again as he dropped the cloth onto the floor.

“You did that,” he drawled.

“Yeah, but you made me do it,” Thomas said. Somehow, disagreeing with Madison about this was easier than about… about that other thing Thomas wasn’t going to think about. 

It was comfortable like this. Thomas let his head slump back against Madison’s chest, breathing in the scent of him. Heavier now, the salt stronger from sweat, but it was… it was still good.

Then he remembered something.

“James?”

“Mm?”

“A friend of mine in flying in,” he murmured, nuzzling against Madison’s neck by some kind of instinct. “Can I meet him on Thursday?”

Beneath him, Madison stilled. Thomas cracked an eye open, and found Madison staring at him.

“Why… are you asking me this?” 

Thomas blinked. “You didn’t give me any rules for interacting with people beyond what I need for work,” he pointed out. “And Lafayette’s not work.”

Something shifted in Madison’s eyes, turning the colour even darker. Thomas didn’t know what it was; knew only that there was a cold dread curling at the base of his spine because of it.

“Lafayette is a friend I made in France,” he said hurriedly. During his college days, even though he didn’t meet Lafayette in college exactly. “He’s… he’s a friend.”

When Madison still didn’t speak, he added, practically stumbling over his words: “If you say no, I can tell him I’m too busy.” He would be disappointed, of course – he hadn’t seen Lafayette in years – but… but Madison said that he was Thomas’s whole world, so… so that was all that mattered. _He_ was all that mattered.

“I know who Lafayette is,” Madison murmured. “He attended Columbia for a couple of years. I’ve met him a few times.”

Oh. Thomas hadn’t known that. Before he could say that, however, Madison kissed him softly.

“You can meet him,” Madison said once he pulled away. “New rule: you can meet people outside of work. You don’t have to limit your social life to just me.” He paused. “But will you… tell me first?”

Thomas nodded. “Of course,” he said. He dropped his head back down onto Madison’s shoulder again, shifting until he was comfortable. “Thank you, James,” he said, the words half-broken by yawning.

“Go to sleep,” Madison murmured. His hand stroked through Thomas’s hair.

“Mm,” Thomas said. He was already halfway there. It was very comfortable like this, bracketed and surrounded entirely by Madison’s body and presence. The foundation of his world had Madison’s heartbeat.

“Was I good today?” he heard himself ask, already half-asleep. Distantly, he noted the hopeful note in his own voice.

Madison’s lips pressed against his temple. “Yes, Thomas,” he said, voice oddly thick. “You were good.” 

“Okay,” Thomas said. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

***

_March 29, Tuesday_

Fifth Avenue Apartments loomed in front of him, concrete blocks and glass windows reaching all the way up to the skies. There, a little to the right: Ms Weeks’s place, and where she probably had stowed Levi after shoving him into the car after the trial yesterday.

The gold gild of the doorway glinted in the early afternoon light. Alexander checked his reflection in the polished glass. Then he hitched his backpack higher on his shoulders, and stepped inside.

“I’m looking for Ms Ezrine Weeks,” he told the security guards when they came towards him. “She lives on the penthouse.” 

Suspicious eyes turned towards him. Alexander bit his tongue and swallowed back the explanation. Burr wasn’t here to do this for him, so he would do it himself. 

“Who are you?” one of them said.

“Alexander Hamilton,” he replied, keeping his voice even. “I’m her brother’s lawyer. I’m here to see both of them.”

He waited there, trying to not rock back and forth on his heels, as one of the guards picked up a phone and presumably called Ezrine. The other one stayed right where he was, the weight of his gaze heavy on Alexander’s throat. He refused to flush; refused to even flinch. He didn’t need their approval. Right now, he had a job to do: he had to talk to Levi.

Minutes passed. The guard on the phone continued muttering into the mouthpiece. Maybe Alexander should have called Burr to come with him, after all. If Burr had been here, then they would already be upstairs. 

No, he didn’t need Burr for this. He could do this by himself. He had dealt with rich clients before.

“She says to let you come up,” the guard said eventually. He put the phone back into the cradle, the _click_ loud in the thick silence of the lobby. “But we’ll have to check you first.”

They hadn’t bothered checking him when Burr had been with him. Alexander pushed the thought away. He lifted his arms and let them pat him down. He slipped his backpack off and settled it onto the counter, and let them rummage through his papers.

Finally, they let him through. Alexander headed for the elevator. He pressed the door shut. The mirrors glimmered underneath the soft fluorescent lights. He looked at himself again, and shoved his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t give into the urge to mess with his hair. It looked fine. He looked fine.

The door opened. Ezrine was standing right in front of him, her arms crossed. Alexander slapped his hand on the edge of the elevator door, stopping it from closing.

“Ms Weeks,” he greeted. 

“Mr Hamilton,” she returned. Her knuckles were white on her elbows. “What are you doing here?”

Alexander wasn’t going to duck his head; wasn’t going to look nervous or weak or vulnerable or any of that. This was a test, and he would pass it.

“Levi had a hard day at the trial yesterday,” he said instead. He lifted his other hand from his pocket, and set it by his side in a posture he hoped was relaxed and ready at the same time. The elevator started to beep. “I just wanted to talk to him, if you’ll allow me.”

Ezrine snorted. “What makes you think that you can say anything to him that I haven’t already?”

For a moment, Alexander was thrown. He stared at her. That was… Alright, what should he say? What would she like to hear? Even though he had met her quite a few times, she kept herself so tightly restrained that it was nearly impossible to know—

He pasted a smile on his face. _Talk less, smile more_. Wasn’t that what Burr told him so long ago?

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds, Ms Weeks,” he said, taking a step forward. Not much out of the elevator, but definitely with intention to enter the penthouse. “Though you’re Levi’s closest kin, you’re not a lawyer. This is my area of expertise.”

Those dark eyes narrowed. Alexander tried to not hold his breath.

“You _are_ overstepping your bounds,” she said flatly. Her hands dropped back to her sides, and she shook her head. “But you have a point. Come on in.”

She turned away. Alexander stepped into the apartment, his hand dropping back by his side. The door closed rapidly behind him, and the elevator beeped again as it returned to the lobby.

“The trial was bad for him yesterday,” Ezrine said, looking at Alexander over her shoulder as she walked towards the couch. The table was filled with papers, and it was a weekday; did she always work from home? It didn’t matter.

“He’s in his usual room.”

Nodding to her, Alexander headed for the steps.

“Mr Hamilton.” Alexander turned, blinking. Ezrine’s lips were pressed flat, her face arranged into an expression he didn’t recognise and couldn’t understand.

“Be careful with him.”

Overprotective sister. Alexander nodded. “I will not step on any wounds,” he promised. 

The piece of paper was still stuck on Levi’s door even though there was a wooden placard with the name properly engraved right above it. The handwriting, large and looping, was practically childish.  
_  
Vegas, Reno, Monte Carlo, St Jose, and Macau. What has Mr Weeks been doing in those particular places? Why does he keep returning?_

_I don’t know. The agencies in those countries have not gotten back to us with their reports yet._

_What has Mr Weeks not been doing?_

_Objection! The prosecution is leading the witness._  
  
_Overruled. Detective Mulligan, please answer Mr. Jefferson’s question._

_There are no records of him visiting any of the casinos, the bars, or even the strip clubs. None of the workers in the various theme parks recognised his picture either._

_No more questions_.

The last time, Levi had burst into tears and shaken his head, over and over. When Alexander had asked Ezrine, she had said that he liked buying electronics from those places, because it was cheaper there. But that was Ezrine, and though she was Levi’s sister…

Levi would know the truth. Levi would tell him the truth.

Slipping his phone from his pocket, Alexander set it to record. He hesitated for a moment before he shifted its position from his trousers to his jacket. Like this, it couldn’t be seen.

He knocked.

“I said to leave me alone, Ezrine!” Levi sounded wretched, and terribly angry.

Shoving down the sudden urge to leave, Alexander raised his voice. “It’s me,” he said. “Alexander Hamilton.”

Sound of pounding footsteps. Levi yanked open the door.

Red-rimmed eyes. A piece of tissue, white stark against the dark skin of Levi’s hands. Levi’s mouth twisting from its downward turn into a full-out grin when he saw Alexander.

“Hey,” he said. He pulled the door open further, and looked down the hallway. “Where’s Burr?”

“Just me today,” Alexander said. He decided to keep the information that he didn’t even tell Burr about this meeting to himself. Levi didn’t need to know; didn’t need to be distracted. “May I come in?”

“Sure!” Levi said. He sounded practically chirpy now, a full hundred eighty from his voice just a few seconds earlier. Alexander blinked, and he took a deep breath and stepped inside.

“Where’s your phone?” Levi asked once he closed the door behind Alexander. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can record this?”

“Left it in my apartment today,” Alexander said. He didn’t even know why he was lying. He looked at Levi, and grinned slightly. “I was in too much of a rush to get here, I guess.”

He’d dawdled for hours before he’d decided that he _had_ to come.

“C’mon, sit down,” Levi said. He took hold of Alexander’s wrist, dragging him into the room. Alexander made for the one chair, but Levi shook his head. “On the bed,” he urged.

Alexander toed off his shoes and dropped his backpack. He sat on the bed, cross-legged, and watched as Levi flopped onto the mattress, all loose limb and easy smiles. The echo of his anger was still ringing in Alexander’s ears.

 _Be careful with him_ , Ezrine had said.

“I was hoping I’d get to talk to you soon,” Levi said. He hugged his legs even closer, and rested his chin over his knees.

“Yeah?” Alexander heard himself ask. “Why’s that?”

“Your argument yesterday was _great_ ,” Levi said. He straightened up a little more, and cleared his throat. “Within the contract lies the right of individuals to make decisions regarding their bodies,” he quoted, dipping his voice lower in some kind of strange imitation of Alexander’s. “The right of individuals to the ownership of their own bodies.”

Shifting further down the bed – so that Levi’s flailing arms wouldn’t hit him in the face – Alexander nodded. “I said that,” he confirmed.

“That’s _brilliant_ ,” Levi grinned. “But I have something else to add, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t.”

Straightening even further, Levi pulled his fingers through his hair, dislodging the tie. His curls flared backwards as he cleared his throat again.

“The right of individuals to make decisions regarding the bodies that have been signed over to them,” he intoned.

“ _What?_ ” Too late, Alexander realised he said that out loud.

Levi blinked. “The right of individuals to make decisions regarding the bodies that have been signed over to them,” he repeated, deliberately slow and disappointment colouring his gaze. His eyes met Alexander’s, and they narrowed after a moment. He was still smiling. “I thought you would understand.”

“I’m trying to understand,” Alexander said. The air was too thin in the room. His throat was dry. His head spun. “Will you… will you explain what it is that you just said?”

A heavy, melodramatic sigh. “Alright,” he said magnanimously. He spread his arms out, and then his legs. The overall effect was that his limbs were barely an inch away from Alexander’s body, practically bracketing him. That wasn’t deliberate. 

It couldn’t be deliberate.

“See, I first learned this while I was in San Jose,” Levi said. He was smiling slightly, crooked out of the corner of his mouth. “There are some people who can’t really deal with the world very well. People who need help and guidance. Someone to take their hand and walk them through life.”

His eyes met Alexander’s, eyebrows cocked. Alexander nodded. 

“These people usually end up in the hands of someone else. In San Jose, and in some of the other places I know, it’s not the person who will guide them. Just someone who will help them find that special someone.” Levi paused, frowning. He rubbed his chin. “Like a matchmaker.”

Alexander nodded again. His insides were starting to turn cold.

“So these matchmakers will find someone like me, and I will give some money – how much depends on how pretty the people in need are – and those people will sign their lives over to me. And I will get to do whatever I like to them. Not because of the money – that’s for the matchmakers for all the hard work they do – but because these people have this innate _need_ to serve someone else. To give themselves up entirely.”

Levi’s smile widened. He sighed, happy and light. “I always have the prettiest dolls.”

That word stabbed straight into Alexander’s mind, a cold knife that broke through his defences. Alexander could barely feel the pain. He was slowly turning numb from head to toe.

Somehow, he managed to lick his lips. He said, “What about Elric? You didn’t meet him in… in any of those places.”

“Oh, _Elric_.” Levi sighed out the name like a teenager in love. He cupped his own cheeks, and rested his elbows on his knees. He leaned in even closer to Alexander. “He was my favourite doll, you know?”

Slowly, Alexander forced himself to nod. Again.

“I met him in a bar,” Levi continued. “He wasn’t very pretty, to be honest, but there was something about him… Something in his eyes, you know? I can recognise it immediately – I’ve seen plenty with those eyes – but… Elric. Poor Elric. He couldn’t even see it in himself.”

“What happened?” Alexander heard himself ask.

“There was no matchmaker,” Levi said, his lip sticking outwards into a pout. “So things were a little difficult. But I knew I was being kind, you see. I knew that I was doing what was right for Elric. He was made to serve. My pleasure would be his pleasure. I just had to work a little harder to make him see that.”

He sighed, resting his cheek against his knee. “He was my favourite doll,” he repeated, more mournfully this time.

Alexander swallowed hard. “I can see that,” he said. “So how… how did he die?”

_Why did he have to die?_

Levi lifted his head up. Then he hugged his knees tighter. “Money was running out,” he sighed. “It’s like water, you know? Trying to hold onto it is so difficult, especially when the matchmakers ask for so much with all their efforts. I spent all of my trust fund nearly four years ago now. And Ezrine is really mean because she refused to give me more money even though I was being so nice to the people in her office.”

Pulling his hand through his hair again, he draped it over to one side. One dark eye peeked out towards Alexander. Alexander fought to keep his smile plastered onto his lips.

“Elric said that he belonged to me,” Levi continued. “He was so sweet, so cute. I proposed and he gave me everything. But you see…” His nail scratched the sheets, just a little. “He’ll bring me more pleasure when he’s dead than alive.”

 _Jesus Christ_. The curse rang out loud in Alexander’s head. But he didn’t let it escape. Maybe it was because his jaw was clenched so tight.

“Was that… was that when he signed the contract?”

Lifting his head, Levi leaned in. “This is starting to sound like an interrogation,” he said. There was a brief note of suspicion in his tone. It was terrifying.

Alexander focused on his breathing. He thought of Burr; thought of the pain he felt from Burr’s hand; thought of how Burr always told him, _control yourself_. 

He controlled himself. His smile widened. “I just want to know everything,” he said. “You’re making me curious.”

“I knew you would get it,” Levi said happily. He flopped back onto the pile of pillows. Alexander kept his smile on.

“Anyway, I started off with the light stuff.” Reaching out his hands towards the ceiling, Levi peeked through his fingers, playing peekaboo with himself. “Violet wands and such things. Elric was the one who suggested we tried them – he’d read stuff on the Internet. But it wasn’t enough for me and he knew it.” 

Shrugging again, he gave Alexander a wide grin from beneath his fingers. Alexander stretched his lips more and prayed that he didn’t look fake. 

“Elric died happy, you know,” Levi said. “I told him that he was dying to serve me. That’s how he always put it. Dying to serve me.”

His lip stuck out again. It trembled, just a little. He buried his face between his knees. “I miss him,” he said. “No one was ever as sweet as he was to me.”

That wasn’t a lie. None of that was a lie. Levi hadn’t lied to him about anything since he walked in through that door. Alexander glanced at the thing out of the corner of his eye. He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have…

Matchmakers. Kidnappers. Dolls. Slaves, being bought and sold. Some sort of human trafficking ring that stretched from San Jose all the way to Macau. Was it a single ring, a single organisation? Mulligan hadn’t been able to find anything. Las Vegas and Reno, Mulligan told him; right on American soil. 

Levi had done it. Levi had killed Elric. Levi had killed him and planned it out and if there was no definition for first-degree murder, then what Levi just said could be it. If there was no definition of a confession, then what Levi had just said…

Alexander had his phone in his jacket. It was recording during the entire conversation. Everything was _recorded_. He could… he could go to Franklin right now. Get out of this room and find the man and give it all to him. Beg him to sentence Levi to jail because that was where he belonged. Beg him to reinstate the death penalty because Levi deserved to be—

Washington said: _You keep your promise to Ezrine. And then I’ll consider it. I’ll really consider it._

No. If Alexander lost this case, then he would never get his partnership. If he ruined his own case, then he might get fired. Then where would he be?

What did he have if not for his job?

He was moving before he knew it. He watched as his hand rested on Levi’s shoulder. He watched as his fingers squeezed down.

“I’m sorry,” he heard his voice said. 

Levi looked up. He sniffled, and grabbed Alexander’s hand. His skin was warm and felt like a swarm of ants, biting and biting and biting. Alexander exhaled hard. He didn’t pull away.

“Sorry,” Levi said, rubbing at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to suddenly dump everything on you like this.”

“It’s alright,” Alexander said. “It’s good to get that off your chest.”

“Are you… are you going to take my idea?” Levi blinked at him. His lip stuck out a little more.

“I’ll have to talk to Burr,” Alexander said. Burr. He plastered a smile on his face. “But I don’t… I don’t think it’d be a problem.”

There was no way he was going to say any of that in a courtroom. It would ruin his case entirely. Those were not words of a… a man whose head was screwed on right.

Levi smiled at him again. His teeth were so white. “Thank you,” he said. “I knew that you would understand.”

Why did Levi think he would understand? How… how could anything Alexander said and had ever said to him be construed as… as whatever Levi thought it was?

He breathed out. “I’d love to stay longer,” he lied. “But I have a meeting with my boss in an hour, so I have to get back to the office.”

“Oh,” Levi said. He didn’t let go of Alexander’s hand. “I’d really like you to stay.”

Alexander’s heartbeat was pounding so loudly that he was sure that Levi would hear it. He swallowed. He smiled again. “I’d love to stay too,” he said. “But duty calls.”

“Fine,” Levi said, heaving a deep sigh. “You’re a hotshot lawyer with more than just one client. You don’t have the time for me. I understand.”

Despite all that he had heard, despite all himself, Alexander couldn’t stop the stab of guilt. Levi sounded so _sad_.

“I really have to go,” he somehow managed to say.

“Yeah, yeah,” Levi said, sighing again. He stood up from the bed without letting go of Alexander’s hand. He tugged on it, and Alexander stood up. He didn’t stumble even though his legs felt numb; felt as if they weren’t there at all, just some solid air below his waist.

Levi swung his arm over his shoulders, pulling him close. Alexander smiled again. “You don’t have to,” he started.

“But I want to spend as much time as I can with you,” Levi insisted. He stood there, and it took Alexander some effort before he could get his non-existent legs working. He picked up his bag. They walked out of the room, and down the hallway. Alexander managed to not trip down the stairs. His phone was a burning brand against his chest. 

They walked down the stairs. Ezrine stared at them. Levi ignored her. Alexander tried to keep his smile unfaltering on his face. Levi’s arm on his shoulders made him want to scrub every inch of skin off; made him want to burn the clothes he was wearing even though they were too expensive for such a thing.

One step, then another. They reached the lift. Levi pressed the button. He leaned in and pressed a kiss on Alexander’s temple.

“Knew you would understand,” he murmured into Alexander’s ear. “From the first time I met you, I knew you would.”

The elevator _dinged_. The door opened. Alexander watched his hand squeeze Levi’s; watched as it pulled the arm off his own shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice echoed hollowly in his ears. “For trusting me. I’m glad… I’m glad that you’re alright.”

Nothing but platitudes. But Levi smiled again. He waved. “I’ll see you soon,” he said.

Alexander pressed the button for the lobby. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”

As the door closed, he could still see two pairs of dark eyes fixed upon him. So different. Both suffocating. The elevator started to move. Alexander reached the lobby. He walked out of the building, trying to not stride too quickly. He headed for Central Park.

His legs gave out at the first bench he saw. He collapsed there. He drew out his phone. Finally, he pressed ‘stop recording’. The battery was half-drained even though he’d just charged it in the morning.

 _Save or discard_ , the window asked him. Alexander’s hand hovered over the screen. He should delete it. He should destroy the evidence. 

He pressed _save_ , and shoved his phone into his pocket. He dropped his head into his hands.

Washington had said: _You keep your promise to Ezrine. And then I’ll consider it. I’ll really consider it._

How the hell was he supposed to save the case? Levi was guilty. Levi’s guilt practically dripped off him. Alexander knew that now. None of his shields could stand up to the cold knives of Levi’s words. He should have known since the very first meeting with the man.

No, he should have known since he first met Ezrine. He should have seen her desperation then. Burr was right; he shouldn’t have made that promise.

Burr. Alexander’s head shot up. He stared blankly at the green leaves of the tree in front of him. 

What was it that Burr had said? _The burden of proof is upon the prosecution’s shoulders; all the defence has to do is to raise reasonable doubt upon their arguments._  
  
Alexander let out a shuddering breath. He pulled out his phone and unlocked it. The recording stared back at him. He moved it to a more obscure location in his phone. He stood up.

If Alexander couldn’t win this case through righteousness… he had to win it through other means. 

What was it that Burr had said? _Madison won’t_ let _him_. __  
  
Even though Burr had been wrong about Jefferson’s argument, he still knew something. There was a secret shared between Madison and Jefferson that Burr was somehow privy to. If Alexander could get to it… If he could figure out what it was…

He could use it. He could make Jefferson lose the case. Maybe not so much that Levi would go entirely free – he shuddered involuntarily at the thought, drawing his arms around himself – but the charge was first-degree murder. If he had something on Jefferson, he could convince him to falter in proving the premeditated part of the murder. Maybe he could get Jefferson to offer a plea bargain. 

It wouldn’t be keeping his promise to Ezrine. It wasn’t a good plan. But it was something.

There was nothing else left.

**_End Book II: all afire with me_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of third scene: Levi is not just guilty; he’s a complete psychopath. He wants Alexander to argue that he has the right to deal with people who have supposedly passed the ownership of their lives to him. He hasn’t been gambling or visiting sex workers in Las Vegas, San Jose, etc. – he has been buying kidnapped people from human traffickers and abusing them. He killed Elric on purpose, and tries to justify it as Elric being made to serve; that Elric is more useful to him when he’s dead, and that his need for money supersedes Elric’s life. He calls the people he abuse ‘dolls’; Elric was his ‘favourite’.
> 
> (Yes, slavery is still a thing. People are being kidnapped from third-world countries and being sold in the first-world ones. Go look it up. I’m not saying more.)
> 
> That part of the scene is _deliberately_ disturbing. Nothing whatsoever of what Levi does is even remotely _near_ okay. _If anything Levi says about Elric or anyone else reminds you of someone you know, please get out of that relationship immediately_. There are a lot of grey areas in this fic. This is _not_ one of them. /PSA
> 
> The rest of the third scene: Alexander has a recording of Levi’s entire confession. He also knows with absolute certainty that Levi is guilty. But he needs to win this because he has _nothing_ left except for his job. So Alexander is going to dig up dirt on Jefferson and Madison because of what Burr said. He’s acting out of sheer desperation. He knows he’s not doing the right thing. Alexander also spent the entire scene being absolutely and completely terrified and horrified of Levi.
> 
> I’ve been building up Levi’s guilt from the start of the fic. The very circumstance of the case would be suspicious to people who is familiar with electrical play in BDSM, actually – violet wands and TENS are the usual equipment; crocodile clips and batteries are _way_ over the top dangerous. It’s electrodes that bring pleasure, not electricity. Tell me if you guys were surprised, nonetheless.
> 
> On a nicer note: the part with regards to controlling heartbeat between Angelica and Sally is actually entirely possible. I’m stretching the realm of belief here because usually that takes a _lot_ more discipline, training, and time, but it’s actually possible.
> 
> Another possible subtitle for this fic: “If you think things are messy/horrible enough, it's not.” On the bright side, things get better from here on. We’re a third of the way through.
> 
> Also, next week onwards will be Book III. I’ll be posting twice a week, on Wednesdays and Sundays. Which means that next Wednesday will be Chapter 15, and Sunday will be Chapter 16.


	15. america’s favourite fighting frenchman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Book III: hell is empty_ **
> 
>   
> **Warnings:** First scene: depiction of a panic attack, and also an abuser painting himself as the victim. Second scene: explicitly consensual BDSM between two men that is not consented to for the right reasons; depiction of belting (hitting someone with a belt), self-hatred, and massive self-destructive tendencies that are actively harmful to those around him.

_March 31, Thursday_

Lafayette strolled into the restaurant wearing a polo shirt, jeans, and a pair of sneakers with comic characters on them; an outfit that probably suited his eldest daughter better than him. He managed to make Thomas feel underdressed in his three-piece suit anyway.

“Hey,” Thomas said. He stood up, walking around the table, forcing his lips to twitch up to a smile. He stuck out a hand.

Which was completely ignored. Instead, Lafayette reached out, taking Thomas’s face with both hands and kissing him on one cheek and then the next.

“It’s good to see you,” Lafayette said, his French still carrying that curious lilt that made him stand out amidst everyone else in Paris. His hands left Thomas’s face, but he didn’t let go, fingers trailed down Thomas’s back, nails skirting along the line of his spine. 

“You look terrible, my friend.”

Thomas ducked his head. He found, to his surprise, that his shoulders were shaking and there was a half-familiar feeling bubbling up his lungs. When he parted his lips, he recognised the laugh that escaped him – entirely sincere, entirely honest, and entirely unexpected without Madison’s presence bracketing him.

“Funny,” he said in English. “A lot of people have been telling me that lately.”

“Really?” Lafayette raised an eyebrow. He was still speaking French. “You have managed to get your subordinates to be less intimidated by you enough to say such things?”

Opening his mouth, Thomas closed it again when Lafayette nudged him on the shoulder. He realised, belatedly, that they were still standing there when there were perfectly serviceable seats around. He dropped back into his chair almost immediately, and tried to not notice the way Lafayette’s eyes narrowed even as he took the one opposite.

“‘A lot of people’ might be an exaggeration,” Thomas said in English. “There was just one. Angelica.” Weeks ago.

“The esteemed Miss Schuyler,” Lafayette said, still in French. He curled _Mademoiselle_ on his tongue like he was kissing Angelica by proxy of her title. “You must introduce me to her.”

“Don’t put too much hope on that,” Thomas said. English, as always, felt flat and cold in his mouth. “You’re better off asking someone else if you want a proper introduction.”

“Oh?”

“Angelica has been cold lately,” Thomas said, barely remembering to insert the whine into the last word: _laaaatelyyyyy_.

Lafayette looked at him. Those dark eyes were sharp on him – the very same keenness that allowed Lafayette to lead his company to greater heights amidst a terribly cruel capitalistic world despite his innate kindness. Thomas fought to not flinch, or look away. He kept the smile on his lips.

Then Lafayette reached out. Slowly, the tips of his fingers brushed over Thomas’s cheek.

Thomas couldn’t help himself: he practically leapt backwards, standing up and sending the chair clattering to the floor. Eyes turned on him immediately – the other patrons of the restaurant – and Thomas stared at the ground. His hands scrambled to pull off the suit jacket he was still wearing, using it as an excuse for… for something before he righted the chair, draped the heavy cloth over the back, and sat down again.

“Something’s wrong,” Lafayette said. The pastoral lilt of his French grew stronger, though his voice was still infinitely gentle. “Will you tell me what it is?”

“It’s nothing,” Thomas said, tongue half-tripping over flat English words. He tried to tell himself that Lafayette only realised because he was a cleverer man than most, but the excuse rang hollow even in his own head. His hands were trembling. “I’m… I’m fine. It’s been a long week.”

“Because of work,” Lafayette said, still in the same tone and accent.

“A long week,” Thomas repeated. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I decided to take on a case lately. The trial started this Monday, so…”

“I’ve known you for over a decade, Thomas,” Lafayette said. He used the French pronunciation – _Toma_ – and caressed it on his tongue like it was precious, but he had switched abruptly to English. “We do not speak much, for we are both busy. But I like to think that our friendship is strong, and I know you well.”

Thomas didn’t speak. He curled his hands into fists, and uncurled them again. They didn’t stop shaking.

“Throughout those fifteen, sixteen years,” Lafayette continued, “you have never shied away from the chance to speak French. Especially to me.”

 _I don’t know if I can_ , Thomas wanted to say- no, that was not right. _I don’t know if I should._ _I don’t know if I’ve been given permission._

He spoke French to himself sometimes, in his own head. But it was a different thing to change languages out loud. He had permission for Spanish, because of the case, but… but Madison hadn’t given him permission for French. He hadn’t because Thomas hadn’t thought to _ask_. Hadn’t thought to…

_Consent is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot hold up in this court._

Why were those words running through his head? Why did his mind become an echo chamber, repeating those particular words back to him, over and over?

“In those sixteen years,” Lafayette was saying, “I have learned to care for you.”

His gaze a heavy weight on Thomas’s throat, threatening to pull him down into some sort of abyss. So different. So very different from the chain on his neck that had once anchored him to solid ground.

Thomas closed his eyes. He let out a breath. “You won’t understand,” he said. No one would. If the world’s rules no longer applied to him, if only Madison’s rules did… Then there was no one else in the world who would understand. Madison had drawn a line in the sand – two of them against the world – and Thomas was… he was grateful.

“Look at me,” Lafayette said. There was something in his voice – a steel blade hidden within the soft wool – that had Thomas jerking his head up. He stared, blank and wide, as Lafayette’s hand cupped his face.

“My friend,” Lafayette said, speaking in French again. His thumb brushed over Thomas’s cheek. “Will you speak to me?”

“There’s nothing,” Thomas started, and his voice died in his throat when Lafayette’s thumb dug into the hollow right below his cheekbone. His breath stuttered in his throat, eyelids falling before he could stop them. He sank his teeth into his lip, using the sharp pain to control himself so he wouldn’t let his head drop back.

“If you do not wish to speak of it,” Lafayette said carefully, “then we will not, Thomas. But you are in pain.” Even through the haziness of his vision, Thomas could see Lafayette’s crooked smile. “I do not like seeing my friends in pain.”

“Should I,” Thomas licked his lips. “ _"Tu veux que je m'en aille?_ ”

His voice echoed inside his head. 

Pulling himself out of Lafayette’s grip, he barely managed a stuttering “I’m sorry” before he headed for the washroom. Somehow, he held himself together to not run for it, instead walking briskly with his back straight until he found himself inside a cubicle, locking the door.

Thomas leaned against it. He closed his eyes. His nails clawed at the plastic of the door. He breathed out and stopped them. He slipped his hand into his pocket. He could… he could ask Madison for permission now. Then Lafayette wouldn’t be looking at him like this and everything could go back to normal—

There was nothing in his pockets. He’d left his phone on the table. Or was it in his jacket? It was… it was somewhere. Not here. Thomas’s breath hitched.

Before the tidal wave could crash down onto his head, he heard a knock. The flimsy cubicle door shook. “Thomas,” came Lafayette’s lilting voice again.

“I’m fine,” he said, the words slipping out of him before he could think. His hands were shaking again. “I’m…”

A click. Then, an odder sound, impossible to describe. Plastic skirting against plastic.

“Look down,” Lafayette said. Thomas obeyed.

His phone lay there, innocuous. Thomas stared at it for a long moment before he bent his knees. He picked up the thing and pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. In at one, out at two. His fingers unlocked the screen by instinct, and he opened the conversation with Madison.

He typed: _May I speak French with Lafayette?_ His hand hovered over the button. He should send it. If Madison gave him permission, then all of this could be solved. But… but what if he said no? Everything hinged on Madison saying giving him permission, so what if…?

_Consent is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot hold up in this court._

Thomas bit hard on the inside of his cheek. His entire body jerked, including his thumb. The ‘sent’ notification popped up just as metal washed over his mouth. Thomas stood up. He stumbled and half-fell onto the toilet seat, flipping the cover down before he sat on top of it. He pressed his thumbs against the bridge of his nose, making stars burst behind his eyes.

Lafayette was still waiting outside the cubicle. He wasn’t saying a word. Thomas counted seconds to distract himself. In English, just to be safe.

His phone buzzed; the screen lit up.

**James:** You can speak in any language you want to anyone you want at any time you want. 


Another buzz.

**James:** Rule number three stated that you have to be honest, Thomas. That includes being honest about the language that you feel comfortable speaking, or which you feel will allow you to express yourself best, or which you think best suit the situation.


Oh.

**You:** I didn’t know that part. Sorry.


He gripped his hand tighter around the phone. When it buzzed again, he could feel the vibrations all the way up his arm

**James:** You don’t have to apologise. You did well in asking, Thomas. You followed the first rule. You asked about something you weren’t sure about.


Thomas’s head dropped down between his knees. He took a breath. Then another. His phone buzzed again.

**James:** How is the meeting with Lafayette going?


Now… now the question was easy to answer. Madison had somehow dragged Thomas out of the storm Thomas was stuck in, and set his feet back down on solid ground.

**You:** It’ll be okay now.


Fingers hovering above the screen, he paused. He chewed on the broken part of the inside of his cheek, and then added: 

**You:** Thank you. I’ll be home soon.


Sending off the message, Thomas stood up. He shoved his phone into to his trouser pocket, checking it a few times to make sure it was still there instead of disappearing immediately. He placed his hand onto the cubicle door, splaying out his fingers. The plastic was clean, and was decorated with some kind of mosaic pattern that didn’t much resemble what mosaic actually looked like.

Breathe in at one, exhale at two. Thomas’s hand slipped down to the door lock. He pulled it back, and opened the door.

Lafayette was perched on the row of sinks, jean-clad legs crossed.

“ _Je suis vraiment désolé,_ Lafayette,” Thomas said, ducking his head. “ _Pardonne-moi._ ”

He might be overplaying his card with his formality, but that was better than to try to understate the situation and have Lafayette angry with him. Thomas didn’t think he could stand having Lafayette angry at him. Not right now.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Lafayette replied, lapsing back to French. He pushed himself away from the sinks, walking closer. Thomas let him cup his face again, and didn’t flinch from the warmth and smoothness of Lafayette’s fingertips.

“I will not ask you again to tell me what is wrong,” Lafayette continued, his dark eyes holding Thomas’s and refusing to let go. “Neither will I ask you to tell me what has happened to change you so drastically. But Thomas…”

Lafayette’s lips quirked upwards into a small, lopsided smile. “You might be surprised at how much I understand.”

Even though Thomas knew what Lafayette was doing, even though he had known the man long enough and had watched him wrap entire rooms around his little finger… he still felt that guilt drive itself into his heart; still felt the knife twist, making the struggling muscle bleed even more.

It was nearly enough to make him laugh. Not with bitterness or anger, no. With relief, with _joy_ , because the world’s shape had been changed entirely, and yet here… Here Lafayette was, completely the same.

Thomas closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged, all of the tension in his body leaving him so quickly that he could barely hold himself up. Lafayette’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, steadying him, and he turned his head and let himself breathe in the very familiar scent of cinnamon and musk that had been Lafayette’s cologne for the past decade. Ever since Thomas introduced it to him.

After a moment, he pulled back. He let Lafayette cup his cheek again, and closed his eyes at the feel of that thumb stroking over his skin. Madison probably… probably wouldn’t be pleased about Lafayette touching him like this, but… Somehow that didn’t matter at the moment.

“Before you met Adrienne,” he stopped, licked his lips, and pushed himself to continued, “have you ever fallen in love with a man?”

That wasn’t what he wanted to ask; not really. But it was the most socially-acceptable tangle amidst the mass that had replaced Thomas’s head.

Lafayette laughed. It wasn’t mean-spirited, but it wasn’t soft either: it was loud, rumbling from his broad chest until Thomas could feel the sound as much as he could hear it.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Lafayette said. He buried his face in Thomas’s shoulder, his own shaking. “It’s just… Thomas, do you remember how old I was when I first met my dearest beloved?”

When Thomas blinked, Lafayette pulled back. He was smiling, wide and amused and so _fond_ , and he patted Thomas gently on the cheek.

“I was twelve,” Lafayette told him. His lips twitched. “How could I have fallen in love with _anyone_ before I met her?”

“Oh,” Thomas said. He felt something crack within him.

But before he could continue, Lafayette placed a finger on his lips. He turned his head, and pressed a gentle kiss on Thomas’s cheek, soft lips brushing over his beard.

“To answer the question truly bothering you…” Lafayette’s smile widened. “Yes, I have fallen for men. I have loved them, and I have been loved by them. I have touched them, and felt the strength of their bodiesagainst mine. I have kissed them, and been kissed by them.” 

His finger pressed harder against Thomas’s lips. “All that happened _after_ I met Adrienne, my friend. After we married, even.”

“What?” Thomas blurted out, unable to help himself. “That’s…” The last person, the _very_ last person, he had expected to cheat on their spouse was Lafayette. Not when he had seen the way Lafayette looked at Adrienne, the softness in his eyes whenever they rested on his wife, the way his body turned towards Adrienne whenever she entered the room.

It was… it wasn’t very different from how he acted around Martha. How he… No. _Don’t think about Madison right now._

“Thomas,” Lafayette said, pulling his attention back. His smile had turned lopsided again, and his hand slipped from Thomas’s cheek down to splay upon his chest. “My friend, you give everything within yourself to those you love, and what you believe. All of yourself, wholly and completely. You shape your world around the pillars you built within those you give to.” 

Lafayette paused. He shook his head, a few curls falling loose from his ponytail to fall across his face, splashes of darkness against sienna skin.

“But we’re different, Adrienne and I. Different, not meaning less or more, simply _different_.” Dark eyes fixed upon him, and Thomas took a few seconds until he realised that he was supposed to nod. He did.

“We give all of ourselves to each other,” Lafayette continued. “Yet when we turn around, we find another who is deserving of love, and we find even more within ourselves to give.”

Oh. Thomas’s shoulders shook. He let out a laugh, high-pitched and hysterical, and stepped out of Lafayette’s grasp to drag a hand over his hair.

“Funny,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “You told me to not underestimate your ability to understand. But it seems like you’re overestimating mine. I don’t…” He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Lafayette said gently. “Only that you accept it. There are mysteries of the world that we have yet to uncover, and yet we accept them wholly and completely. Could you do that?”

Thomas laughed again, a short bark. “You know me,” he said, voice dry without effort. “I can’t abide mysteries. I must understand everything.”

Wait. That wasn’t true. No, he was _good_ with mysteries; good with things that were wrapped in darkness and which he could… not ignore, but paste another label upon it and pretended that his label was correct.

Once, he had thought the foundation of his world was made out of stone, heavy and unyielding. But the darkness was ripped off, and he found himself to be wrong, and it was made of glass after all. Thin glass, more fragile than church windows, which shattered the moment the darkness stopped taking the weight. And he had fallen, fallen, and now…

Now what was the foundation beneath his feet? What was he standing on? Madison’s words?

_Consent is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot hold up in this court._

“The world is made even more beautiful for what we do not understand,” Lafayette was saying, and that was as a good a reason as another to stop Thomas from pulling away that particular darkness that was all that was holding him steady.

“Could you accept that, for my sake?”

Three words. Thomas closed his eyes, another laugh scratching out of his raw throat. “You really know me too well,” he said, hands clenching into fists by his side. 

_For Lafayette’s sake_ , he could. Pillars he built within those whom he gave everything to. Was the correct preposition ‘within,’ or should it be ‘around’?

His head was spinning again. He lurched forward, eyes flying open, and Lafayette’s hands on his shoulders barely managed to steady him.

“Thomas,” Lafayette said. When Thomas looked at him, he was smiling again, but it now looked forced, for his eyes were too darkened with shadow for any of his usual joy.

“What is the name of this man?”

Man? Oh. The tangle he offered Lafayette. Thomas breathed out through his teeth, spreading his legs a little on the linoleum floor, trying to look for some kind of anchor within himself. 

It came to him as a name: “Madison.” No. No, that wasn’t… That wasn’t… “James,” he corrected himself immediately. “His name is James.”

Why did he call Madison by his last name? Why did he… why was he still referring to the man by his last name in his _own head_?

 _Consent…_ Stop. Stop. He needed to stop. The echo chamber needed to be destroyed. He needed to…

Lafayette’s hand on his chest. Nails sinking beneath his skin through his violet button-down. Thomas never liked pain, but this… This steadied him. He opened his eyes again.

“Is he worth it?” Lafayette asked quietly. “Is he worth all this?”

 _This_. Lafayette had a hell of a way with words. _This_ : pieces of Thomas falling apart, his hands shaking even as he tried to catch all of them. Tangles in his mind, knotting together when they had always been threads that formed a tapestry that made perfect sense. 

Was Madison worth it? Why was he still calling him Madison? 

“I’d be able to answer that,” he heard himself say, “if I knew why all this was happening.”

Lafayette’s hands on his cheeks. Thomas breathed out, and allowed himself to be pulled in until their foreheads touched. He always allowed Lafayette to touch him like this. Was it because, like he always told himself, Lafayette was French and therefore his definition of boundaries was different and Thomas needed to respect that?

Or was it because of what Thomas _was_? Or was it… was it…

A flood of questions replacing the stone in his mind. He was drowning. His lungs still worked but he was in water. Or had he been submerged all of his life and only imagined the air? Was his mind strong enough to allow himself to not drown all this time even when he was only…?

Pillars. Pillars standing upon glass. When the glass cracked and shattered, where did the pillars go?

Perhaps here: Lafayette’s hands on his arms, stroking from shoulders to elbow. “I have a theory,” he said. “But I will not tell you, Thomas. Not right now.”

Thomas lifted his head. Lafayette was smiling with downturned eyes. 

“Sorry,” he said. “This is a hell of a homecoming I’m giving to you.” 

Once, Martha called him a slob and laughed at him for his habit of shoving messes he made under any convenient surface he could find. He was doing that, wasn’t he? When had the literal become metaphors and the metaphors become literal?

“I don’t mind,” Lafayette told him. He leaned up and kissed Thomas’s forehead. “I only hope that I am able to give you enough peace of mind.”

Two fingers pressed against Thomas’s lips before he could speak again.

“You are not telling me everything that is going on,” Lafayette continued. “I will not ask you to. Not until you’re ready and willing. Not until you understand everything, and could decide with a clear mind that you want to tell me.”

Staring at Lafayette, Thomas could practically feel his own eyes widening as his breath froze in his throat. _Ready and willing_ , Lafayette said. _Understand everything_ , Lafayette said. _Decide with a clear mind_ , Lafayette said.

His own voice; a different set of words: _Please. Do it again, please_?

Madison’s voice: _The second rule is that you may beg whenever you like, but only if you truly want it. I’ll know if you are lying. And it’s always up to me if I will give it to you._

Burning on his cheek. The echo of a slap that jerked his head to the side, weeks old but still fresh. A face so familiar to him, and yet different. Not just in the shape, not just in the eyes. Not in the face itself, but also…

He never could see the face clearly. Not throughout the entire night. There were always tears.

Lips on his cheeks, gentle and soothing. Madison’s voice: _The fourth rule is that when you cry, you’re not being weak. You’re offering me a gift. You’re offering me yourself, and I will always treasure that. Never be ashamed of your tears, Thomas_.

Legs around his hips. Arms around his back. His own voice, calling for a name that wasn’t hers: _Martha, Martha, Martha_. At the ending, but before his tears had completely dried, her voice: _Mr. Jefferson, there are a couple of textbooks I need to get_.

“Thomas?” Lafayette’s voice. Thomas blinked, focusing back on his friend. He tried to smile.

She always sounded nervous. 

Pushing himself away from Lafayette’s arms, Thomas headed for the sink again. He turned on the tap, and splashed water on his face. The chill sunk into his skin, wrapped around his bones. His hands slapped down onto the counter, sending water everywhere. Thomas stared at his own face.

A half-familiar voice: _Darlin’_.

It wasn’t glass under his feet, after all. The stone was really stone. The glass was an illusion.

“Thomas,” Lafayette said again. His hand landed on Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas turned to look at him.

He took Lafayette’s face with his hands, and leaned in to kiss one cheek, then the other. His shoulders shook, but the laughter that escaped him was far easier and lighter than any of those he had given for the entire evening.

Honestly, he should’ve known. He should’ve known that everything boiled down to something so simple in the end. 

“Thank you,” he told Lafayette when he pulled away. He closed his eyes so Lafayette wouldn’t see the triumph in them and ask. “You… you helped me figure out something really important.”

“Oh?” Lafayette asked. His hand stroked down Thomas’s back. “What is it?”

There was no need for complicated metaphors. There had never been any: no pillars, no tangles. Only one person he could point to and say: her fault, not his. 

She did this to him.

“You believe that the world is made beautiful because people are different,” Thomas said. He felt Lafayette nod without needing to open his eyes. He took a breath.

“Sometimes, the world is made uglier because of the differences, too.” 

He should’ve known that it wasn’t his fault. He should’ve known that he was right.

“Look at me,” Lafayette said. Thomas opened his eyes, and did.

Lafayette took a step back. His gaze was heavy on Thomas, but Thomas met it without flinching. The ground beneath his feet, the foundation of his world, had always been stone. The glass was merely an illusion. If he was at fault, it was simply that he had been a fool to trust; to _believe_.

“People are different,” Lafayette said, his voice quiet but firm, “because they see the world through different eyes. Others see what we miss, Thomas.”

There it was again: that cold guilt-knife in his heart. This time, Thomas didn’t know the cause, but it didn’t matter. He gripped his triumph tight with both hands and shook his head.

“What—” he started, but Lafayette silenced him with a finger against his lip.

“Promise me, before you do anything about what is troubling you… Promise me that you’ll try to see the world through their eyes, at the very least.”

Through _her_ eyes? Thomas barely managed to stifle the scoff. Though he admitted that Lafayette was very sharp, and he understood people perhaps even better than Thomas himself did, he did have his blind spots: the smoke of his burning, relentless compassion tended to get into his eyes.

Still, he kept the smile on, and swallowed the words back. If Lafayette was justified in keeping silent about something so the conversation didn’t turn ugly, then Thomas was justified in doing the same.

He was justified.

“I promise,” he lied. His hands moved to Lafayette’s shoulders, squeezing them lightly. The corner of his lips twitched into a smile that felt real for the first time in weeks.

“Let’s go back out,” he said. “I remember promising to buy you dinner.”

Lafayette’s eyes were dark on him, indecipherable. After a long moment, he nodded. He smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s.”

There was something odd in his voice. Thomas pondered it for a moment before he dismissed it. There were unspoken secrets between them, things they kept from each other because of the friendship they shared. White lies, absolutely necessary in a world like theirs. The foundation of many successful relationships.

They headed for the door. Thomas noted, distant and brief, that it was locked. Lafayette had locked the door after he had come in.

Such a small detail. It didn’t have to mean anything.

***

_April 2, Saturday_

The sun was shining bright and searing through the open windows of the apartment, and there was someone trying to break down Alexander’s door.

He jerked away, and smacked his foot right against the table leg. Table leg? Oh, he was in the kitchen. Alexander blinked blearily, rubbing his face. The thundering at his door continued. He turned his head, and then yelped, slapping a hand over his neck. He could practically hear the muscles _scream_ when he moved.

Okay, so maybe getting up in the middle of the night to continue working had been a bad idea. Maybe refusing to go to sleep even after the coffee wore off was a bad idea. Alexander dragged his hand over his hair, and then rubbed his knuckles over his eyes.

No, he decided. The idea was perfectly fine. He didn’t have nightmares sleeping on the table. He should, in fact, sleep on the table from now on. Maybe the second-hand thing had some kind of blessing on it so it could keep the demons away.

Except that the particular demon haunting him was entirely human. 

Alexander closed his eyes. He dropped his head down, smacking it hard against the table again. There was a slow-growing throbbing behind his eyes, stars blinking in time with the continuous pounding on the door. Why hadn’t whoever it was giving up yet?

“Go away!” he yelled. When that didn’t work, he shoved himself up to standing, and strode over to the door. He yanked it open.

“Will you just fuck off—” he stopped.

There, standing with one hand in his pocket and his hair loose around his face, was someone Alexander hadn’t seen in years. There, fist still raised barely an inch from Alexander’s nose, eyes wide and dark, was Lafayette.

Some kind of animal instinct kicked in. Alexander tried to push the door back closed. Unfortunately, Lafayette chose that precise moment to take a step forward, which resulted in the door smacking right into Lafayette’s face even as his foot jammed into the frame.

“Ow,” Lafayette said mildly. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, and rubbed his nose with a hand.

“Sorry,” Alexander muttered. He tried to close the door again, but Lafayette put his elbow right against the wood. Alexander pushed harder, planting his feet on the ground and lifting his heels. 

Lafayette raised an eyebrow. “Is this how you greet a friend whom you haven’t seen in years?” he asked mildly.

“This is exactly how I greet someone who started a racket at my door,” Alexander muttered in reply, trying to put his entire weight against the door. “Someone whose behaviour is threatening to have my neighbours calling the cops on me, and thus getting me evicted. Someone who came over without giving some kind of warning first.”

A hand slapped against the door. The couple of inches Alexander had gained were taken back almost immediately. Lafayette leaned even harder against the doorframe.

“If I’d called, you would’ve made very sure to be out of the house,” he said in the same mild tone. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that it’s pure luck that you’re still here when you know that I was flying back.”

“My life,” Alexander said through gritted teeth, “doesn’t revolve around avoiding you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Lafayette pointed out in that same irritatingly level tone. “In fact, I mean the exact opposite.”

Alexander blinked, his mind screeching to a halt for a moment as he tried to parse that. Too late, he realised: Lafayette was expecting his reaction.

Look, Lafayette had never played football while they were in college together, but he’d had plenty of people practically begging him to join the team. Amongst their group of friends, the only person with broader shoulders, stronger arms, and faster legs than him was Mulligan. So Alexander was entirely, _entirely_ , justified in his very high-pitched yelp when Lafayette swooped down, slammed his shoulder into Alexander’s sternum, and picked him up in a fireman’s carry.

Of course the man wouldn’t have lost any of his physique in the eight years since they were undergrads. That would have meant that Lafayette actually made sense as a human being.

The door slammed closed behind them. Lafayette locked it. Alexander flailed on a shoulder, trying to get down even though it might mean that he fell flat on his face onto his own floor. But Lafayette had an implacable arm draped over his waist, and Alexander yelled again, incoherent and indignant, when Lafayette dumped him onto the couch.

Dark eyes loomed over him. “You,” Lafayette said, “have not been feeding yourself properly, my friend.”

As if to punctuate his point, he poked Alexander’s cheek.

Goddammit. This – _this_ – was precisely why Alexander had chosen to wait until Lafayette had returned to France and been buried beneath all of the work he’d needed to do as the new CEO of his family’s company before he’d fully broken off his ties with everyone. Lafayette couldn’t see reason; couldn’t respect distance. He loved with abandon and showered that love liberally upon those he chose, barging into their spaces and lives with his goddamned beauty and thrice-damned charisma and his fucking _sincerity_ until it was impossible to not reciprocate his love.

Alexander’s heart twisted hard in his chest.

“I fucking despise you,” he snarled.

“Yes,” Lafayette said. “I figured.” His hand slid into Alexander’s hair, pulling out the messy tie. His lips stretched into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You stopped replying to my calls,” he said, voice low and soft. “You stopped replying to my emails. Even when I whined at you, you didn’t send a reply. A man who couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop writing, going entirely silent no matter how much I tried.”

His smile grew crooked. There, something that changed: there were lines at the sides of Lafayette’s eyes now, deep-etched. They looked so terribly sad, with that smile. Alexander’s hand trembled at his side to touch them.

“Oh, so that’s what this is,” he said, his voice echoing loud in his own head. “You want to punish me.”

He spread out his arms as much as he could with Lafayette looming above him. His leg lifted, and he rubbed his knee alongside the other man’s thigh.

“C’mon, then.” He rocked his hips upwards. “If that’s what you’re here to do, then let’s get it over with, and leave me alone.”

Alexander didn’t have time for this. Not for Lafayette. Not for the complications Lafayette would bring to his life. If he opened the door to one, he would open the door to all, and- no. No. The demon was real and he would not drag anyone down into the mire who didn’t deserve it. The demon was real and Alexander needed to help him win; needed him in order to win. Deal with the devil; sell his own soul and no one else’s.

Taking a deep breath, he patted Lafayette’s cheek. He tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his chest, deepening with every beat of his heart, at the wide-eyed stare turned to him. 

“So what are you waiting for?”

Lafayette closed his eyes. His entire body sagged, the weight of it pressing down onto Alexander. Couch springs dug into Alexander’s ribs and spine; he ignored the pain.

“That’s not what I came here for,” Lafayette said, accent thickening with every syllable. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

“Really?” Alexander asked. “I find that hard to believe when this,” he slid his knee up, rubbing it against Lafayette’s groin as hard as he could, “says otherwise. You’ve had a dry spell lately.”

“Alexander,” Lafayette said, turning the name into a deep exhale; a sigh. He lifted himself up by the elbows, and his fingers were terrifyingly gentle on Alexander’s cheek. “Is this what you want? Is this what will let us have a proper conversation?”

“No,” Alexander said. He felt his own mouth curving upwards, twisted at the corners. He turned his head, nuzzling against those fingers, grazing them with his teeth. “I have nothing to say anymore.” He’d said everything he could, everything he wanted to, all those years ago.

His hand crept upwards, splaying over Lafayette’s chest. His smirk widened, and he tipped his head back. “Not to you. Not to anyone.”

“Then why did you offer this?” Lafayette asked, because he knew that Alexander spoke the most when he had a collar around his neck and was on his knees.

It wasn’t only Laurens he’d ruined; there was Lafayette too. But Lafayette had always burned brighter and stronger than the three of them combined; a core of diamond instead of Alexander’s brittle steel, or Laurens’s porcelain, or Mulligan’s silk.

Alexander broke one. He tore the other with his own hands, by accident, and by the time he realised what he had done, it was too late. Mulligan had always been better at sewing than he was anyway. ( _Don’t think about Eliza. Don’t think about Maria._ ) But Lafayette…

Squeezing his eyes shut, Alexander’s head dropped forward. Cinnamon and musk.

“You haven’t changed your cologne in eight years,” he murmured.

Lafayette’s long fingers stroked through his hair. Nails on his scalp, because Lafayette knew him too well even after the long separation. Alexander shuddered. Behind his eyes: ugly steel, made with too much carbon, being dealt another blow. Cracks running through the surface. The smallest wind would have it all shattering.

Then Alexander would have to pick up the pieces and glue them together all over again. His fingers were bloodied by all of the sharp edges, and his eyes could barely pick out grey any more.

“Why?” Lafayette breathed into his ear.

“I’m tired,” he said, giving up. “I’m tired, Gil. I’m so tired.”

Once upon a time, if Alexander had said that, Eliza would have tutted at him. She would have left food by his desk, and draped a blanket over his shoulders. Laurens would have challenged him; would have said that Alexander couldn’t finish his work before he did. And Mulligan would have lifted Alexander bodily on the chair and literally rolled him into a human burrito on the bed, waiting there at the edge until Alexander fell asleep. 

( _Don’t think about Burr._ Burr didn’t exist. A single soul facing the demon at the crossroads; not two.)

“But you won’t take the kindness I give,” Lafayette pointed out, because the thing about diamonds was that their brilliancy could pierce sharper than knives. “If I try to treat you well, you’ll end up using the safeword.”

“Yeah,” Alexander said. He tried to smile. “Yeah. I don’t want…”

“Shh,” Lafayette said. His nail raked down Alexander’s face, temple down to chin, following the line of his jaw. “Don’t tell me what you don’t want. Tell me what you want, Alexandre.”

At the sound of his name in that French lilt, Alexander arched upwards. His lids grew heavy involuntarily no matter how much he wanted to focus on Lafayette’s dark, intense eyes. He swallowed.

“Punish me, Gil,” he said. “Please.”

“It’s not a punishment if you want it,” Lafayette said. His voice was cold and hard. Alexander’s back slammed down onto the couch when Lafayette pressed a hand over his ribs, shoving them down. Alexander’s lips parted, but his lungs couldn’t move, couldn’t expand.

“ _Gil_ ,” he gasped. “Beat me. Humiliate me.” He was wasting his breath. “You know me, Gil. You know what I want. Please. Call it reward or punishment or whatever you like.” Air was running out and grey was creeping into his vision. “Please, Gil.”

Lafayette’s hand lifted. Alexander sucked in air, entire body shuddering. His eyes burned. He turned his head, but before he could wipe them against his arm, Lafayette slapped him.

“Not like that,” Alexander said. “Back of your hand. Please.”

( _Don’t think about Burr. Don’t think about Burr._ He was a machine with rusting parts, falling apart, and he would sell his soul to the demon for repairs because his soul was the one thing he had left and he needed to go on, he needed to carry on, no matter what because he hadn’t come this far to—) 

Another slap. Rough knuckles instead of soft palm. Alexander tried to breathe. His head was spinning. He didn’t open his eyes.

Hand on his shirt collar. Fingers twisting into cloth, tightening it, and Alexander’s fingers clawed at the wrist but the arm was too strong. He was dragged from the couch and shoved onto the floor, facedown. Wooden floorboards cold against his cheek. Alexander tried to turn around, but there was a knee right there, in the centre of his chest, holding him down. A hand was in Alexander’s hair, slowly grinding his face into wood.

“Belt,” Alexander said, because Lafayette was silent, so silent. “Belt, please. Gil. Please.” There weren’t any newspapers in the house. And that… that wouldn’t give him the pain he needed anyway.

His collar was twisted again. Alexander was dragged up to his feet. The strength made his heart pound louder. He could almost see it at the back of his eyes: Lafayette’s arm, corded muscles straining, veins peeping out from thin skin, light green stark against raw umber. He kept his eyes closed and focused on that image.

The sound of rustling papers. Things being knocked away. Then: wood again, the grain coarser this time, the polish worn off. Kitchen table. Lafayette’s hands wrapped around his wrists, pulling them up, draping Alexander’s body over the entire table. He gripped onto the edge. He didn’t need instructions.

A hand between his shoulderblades. It pressed down. Alexander stayed down even when it left; when he heard Lafayette’s footsteps, leather loafers on kitchen tiles.

Nose against wood. The smell of paper and wood and a nauseating mixture of old sauces. Lafayette’s fingers tightened around his hair, holding him down. Chill against his neck. The knife slit through his t-shirt like it was butter.

“Gil,” Alexander tried to say. Knives were strange. Knives were Lafayette’s thing. Artistry and intimacy. Lafayette murmuring about beauty and trust and _so honoured_ as he pressed the flat of the blade against Alexander’s skin, and carved out blooming vines all over his back that left no scars once they healed. 

“Don’t,” Lafayette said. His voice was hoarse, the accent so thick that Alexander could barely recognise the word to be English. “Don’t, Alexandre. Don’t say my name.”

Here was the thing about diamonds: they did not crack, they could not dull, but they still darkened when a shadow fell across the skies.

Alexander opened his eyes. He stared at the wood. He listened as Lafayette took off his belt, and shivered at the warm hand parting the cloth still lingering on his back. He didn’t tense when the hand moved upwards, fingers curling over his neck.

Lafayette’s lips in his hair. Soft, soft kiss. “Alexandre,” he said, turning Alexander’s name into heartbreak. 

Eyes on the table.

When the lashes came, he closed his eyes again. He counted without being told – one, two, three. The tears fell somewhere around seven. The sobs started at twelve. His hands hurt from the table’s edge and his back was on fire, but it wasn’t enough, it never could be enough because he could hear Lafayette’s breathing with every fall of the belt. The little hitches, the ragged exhales. 

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, and he wasn’t sure who he was talking to anymore. It was so much easier with Burr, because with him it was Alexander and his ghosts who weren’t really there and so could forgive him and he could turn back time and undo all the damage he did, and a man who really didn’t care.

( _Don’t think about Burr. Don’t think about Burr._ He was selling only one soul, not two.)

“Sorry,” he said, gasping now, barely able to breathe. “Twenty-one. Sorry, sorry, so fucking sorry.” His entire body was trembling and his back was hot, so hot, and there was a clatter of metal on tiles and Lafayette’s hand _burned_ on his skin.

“Gil, Gil,” Alexander begged. “Gil, Gil, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Alexandre,” Lafayette breathed. Mouth in Alexander’s hair. Warmth soaking into the strands, and Lafayette holding himself up so carefully, not a single inch of him touching Alexander’s back. “Why do you never believe me? Why do you never believe any of us?”

“Can’t,” Alexander said. He jerked hard, flopping on the table. His back touched Lafayette’s shirt, raw skin scraping over cotton, and he bit back a scream that half-wrestled out of his throat anyway. “Can’t, can’t. Sorry about that too. Sorry, sorry.”

Soft lips on his temple. Lafayette’s smile, tremulous, hot as a brand on Alexander’s skin. “You mean that, but you never do,” he breathed. “You never do, Alexandre.”

Before Alexander could say anything, Lafayette’s hands were over his, slowly prying his half-stiffened fingers from the table’s edge. Alexander’s elbows slammed into the wood when he let go, and Lafayette’s fingers caressed the surely-reddening spots. Left, and then right.

“Please,” Alexander begged. “Don’t. Don’t, Gil. Don’t.”

Another kiss to his hair. Warm liquid dripping on his shoulders, sliding over his back. Salt on wounds, metaphorical and literal, and Alexander’s shoulders shook with soundless laughter.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he breathed. “I shouldn’t have let you in.”

Lafayette’s nails, softly scraping over his back. Alexander gasped, spine bowing as he threw his head back, and Lafayette caught him by the throat. He held Alexander there, half-lifted off the table, as his nails slid from Alexander’s shoulders all the way down to his hips.

Fire. Fire and pain. Alexander sobbed, thrashing, but Lafayette’s grip on him was too strong. He pulled Alexander further up by his throat until Alexander was practically on his feet, heels scrabbling against tile to find some purchase.

Then there was no more ground. Only Lafayette’s arm, a slice of cold flame on his back. The other under Alexander’s knees. Every single step drowned Alexander in fire, choked him with it, shoved it deep into his lungs and locked it deep into his bone. Cleansing.

His chest hit the couch. Lafayette’s nails again, over his scalp. Slow, practically soothing. Unnecessary. Not like Burr’s perfunctory care: cool cream over his skin, the chill almost enough to burn.

( _Don’t think about Burr. Don’t think about Burr._ Burr didn’t exist. Burr had no soul to sell anyway.)

“Gil,” he whispered.

“Shh,” Lafayette said. His hand rested on top of Alexander’s neck, web between thumb and index finger resting perfectly over a knob of his spine. Alexander’s head turned towards it, practically nuzzling Lafayette’s arm, and Lafayette let him.

Lafayette shouldn’t let him.

Warmth on his back. Something wet, a little slimy. The pain started to peter off. Alexander made a sound, almost lifting his head – he didn’t want the pain to stop – but Lafayette’s hand stayed where it was even as the other one spread the cream over his back.

“Where…” Alexander started.

“My pocket,” Lafayette said. Splayed fingers on Alexander’s back, but no pressure, simply sliding down. “Call it an abundance of hope, if you like. Or your own predictability, if you like that better.” 

The cream was warm. It shouldn’t be able to take away the stinging pain, but it did, nonetheless. Alexander felt like his skin was being removed and replaced with cotton wool. Every act of kindness was a knife between his ribs. He was a corpse in the midst of an autopsy, blades sawing through his chest, knives cutting his heart apart, exploring every valve.

His breath hitched. More tears dripped into his couch, seeping into the ugly floral pattern.

“You shouldn’t…” he started. He shook his head; his mind seemed to be covered in fuzz, for some reason. He breathed through his teeth. “Please don’t be so nice to me. I don’t deserve it. I don’t.”

Lafayette’s hand left his neck. Left his back. There was a click, plastic against wood. Lafayette’s lips against his temple; his breath ghosting over Alexander’s cheek.

“One day, my friend,” Lafayette murmured, “you’ll realise that the only one who hasn’t forgiven you is yourself.”

“No,” Alexander protested immediately. “That’s not true. You can’t have forgiven me. You can’t—”

He stopped. Lafayette’s hand was over his mouth. Salt on his skin, and the taste of something undefinably sharper. Diamonds.

“You’ll realise,” Lafayette said as if Alexander hadn’t said a thing, his voice flat and hollow, “that the punishment you deal to yourself ends up hurting all those around you, too. The knives you hand others is double edged.”

Oh. Alexander’s breath hitched. His head spun.

“I love you, my friend,” Lafayette continued, every word he said was another knife sawing Alexander’s ribs open, another slice of scalpel into Alexander’s heart. “But Alexandre… Just because you think you’re an object to be used doesn’t mean that you can use others too.”

A soft kiss on the top of his head. Fingers carding through his hair, still unbearably gentle.

“I’ll see myself out,” Lafayette said.

Alexander closed his eyes. He listened to Lafayette’s footsteps. The door unlocked, opened, and closed. He didn’t move.

Slowly, he sat up. There was a small plastic container on the table, the cap opened. Half-full of salve. He looked at his chest, and was surprised to see it whole. He looked at his hands, and was surprised to see brown skin clean of any red.

He pressed his knuckles to his eyes. It didn’t help. He opened his eyes again, and shrugged himself out of his ruined shirt. Then he flopped down on his back, letting the rough upholstery of the couch scrape over his skin. 

Shoving the shirt into his mouth, he reached down. Unbuttoned his pants and pulled open his zipper. He rubbed his back against the couch, letting pain drown him and devour him whole, and he closed his hand around his cock and jerked himself off. Efficient strokes. The hand wasn’t the same. His eyes were burning and there was salt on his tongue.

When he came, there was no fog, no black gate. Nothing except sticky wetness on his stomach and hand. Alexander spat out the shirt, shoved it with one still-aching elbow over the side of the couch. He lifted his hand, and smeared the come over his face.

It wasn’t the same.

Sitting up again, he curled into himself. The roaring in his head was loud enough to drown out even the pain.

There was only his soul left for him to sell, and he was a machine falling apart, needing repairs. He held onto the metaphor as he stood up and stumbled into the shower. He turned the water as hot as it could go and knelt on the floor. 

One soul for the demon at the crossroad. He needed to go on. He needed to. 

The spray scalded the lashes on his back, but he still didn’t feel clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“"Tu veux que je m'en aille?"_ – "Should I leave then?"  
>  _“Je suis vraiment désolé,_ Lafayette _. Pardonne-moi._ ” – "I'm really sorry, Lafayette. Please pardon me."
> 
> Lafayette and Jefferson had an _incredibly_ intense friendship in history. They drafted the _Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen_ together – the document that became the basis of the UN Humans Rights Charter _and_ the Constitution of the French Fifth (current) Republic. When Lafayette returned home from his tour of the US in 1824, he brought back not only Washington’s hair, but Jefferson’s as well. IDEK, man. People and their relationships with each other are complicated.
> 
> Once again, Jefferson’s views are not my own. He still has a way to go before he could even _admit_ his wrongdoings, much less start on any kind of redemption.
> 
> While Jefferson has newly fallen into a hole and is simultaneously pretending he’s not in one and pulling other people down in his attempt to get out, Hamilton has been in his hole for years and the view from there is all that he remembers, now. Getting him out is going to take a… while… (If you’re wondering, yeah, he has hit rock bottom.)
> 
> Reminder that next chapter will be posted on Sunday night EST!
> 
> PS: I almost never ask for this, because I believe that if something's good enough, then you'll want to comment. But as I'm back to singing _hello darkness my old friend_ over and over in my head to get through the minutes, please validate me through comments. Thank you, ilu all.


	16. I guess I’m gonna fin’ly listen to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smartest person in the room needs to sit down, shut up, and listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: discussion of parental abuse and homophobia, and depiction of under-negotiated daddy kink that’s implied to serve as therapy. Second scene: abuser painting himself as victim, victim-blaming, physical violence as intimidation, attempt at gaslighting, and detailed discussion of abuse.

_April 2, Saturday_

Nearly ten in the evening: the club was starting to fill up even further, the usual late evening crowd coming in. James barely spared them a glance, stroking his fingers over Ben’s curls as he pressed a soft kiss to his temple. The chest beneath him was still trembling with harsh, uneven breaths, so he continued to trace the spine slowly.

This was the latest James had stayed out since that night. Thomas must be getting worried. He pushed down the urge to check his phone, because Ben hadn’t done anything to deserve such a discourtesy. The boy had called him today, sounding half-hysterical like he usually did when he asked for James, and… Well. The contract between them still stood.

Slowly, he felt Ben’s breathing smoothing out. His shirt was soaked with tears, but that didn’t matter – usually that dried in the time he took to grab a glass of cognac after a scene. He continued to brush his fingers through the curls, holding some of them towards the light. Ben’s hair wasn’t entirely like Thomas’s: there were streaks of brown here and there, peeking through the black. Thomas’s every strand was entirely black.

They weren’t the same person. He had always known that. But the reminders had been coming more and more frequently nowadays.

“Sir?”

James blinked. He looked down. Ben’s eyes were clear and lucid, and there was a half-smile curling up one side of his mouth. James cupped his face, stroking over the cheekbone that was almost as sharp as Thomas’s.

“What is it, boy?” he asked.

“Can we talk?” Ben hesitated. “Not as… Not like this. But properly.”

Hah. Now that was unexpected. James cocked his head to the side. “Is this about the contract?”

“No, sir,” Ben shook his head. “Just something I’d like to ask you, but I don’t want to ask as your boy.” His smile widened slightly. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

That gave him an inkling of what this might be about. James considered the possibilities, and the time. It probably wouldn’t take very long, and so he nodded.

“I’ll meet you upstairs in about ten minutes?” That would give Ben enough time to change, as well as James more than adequate time to call Thomas so that he wouldn’t worry. “The third private room from the stairs.”

Ben nodded. He shifted, and James let go of him so he could stand on his own. His eyes fixed upon James for a moment before he leaned forward and kissed him, brief and chaste, on the lips.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

James stared at his back as he left. That was definitely _not_ in the contract. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head slightly, before he headed out of the play area and back to the bar.

It wasn’t Wilmot who was tending today; a good thing, too, because the man was too chatty by far and played very definite favourites with regards to whom he gave information to. James ordered his usual, and tipped the woman.

“The third private room isn’t occupied right now, yes?” he asked.

She gave him a small, polite smile. “It’s all yours,” she said. No honorifics, no names; as per the rules of the club. Another reason why James preferred her to Wilmot.

Placing the glass onto the table when he stepped in, James dropped down on to the couch. He took out his phone. Five minutes past ten. He pressed the first number, and listened to the dial tone. The call went to voicemail. He tried again.

This time, Thomas picked up on the third ring. “Was in the shower,” he said, sounding winded.

“Don’t worry about it,” James said quickly, before Thomas could apologise. He needed to break Thomas out of his constant need for apologies – slowly, without making it a rule. He settled further into the couch. “I called you because I need to apologise. The meeting ran over, so I’ll be even later than I said. You can go to sleep first.”

“No, I…” Thomas said. His voice sounded strange: a little too thin. “It’s okay. I’ll wait up for you.”

“You don’t have to,” James told him.

“There’s no work tomorrow,” Thomas insisted. “We can sleep in. I’ll wait up for you.”

He was definitely speaking too fast, as if the words were tumbling from his mouth before they could form fully in his mind. Something else that was unexpected tonight. 

There were only three minutes left before Ben would appear. No time for a proper conversation. He closed his eyes, and tipped his head back to the couch.

“Alright,” he said softly. “I’ll see you when I head back.” He paused.

“Good boy.”

“Thank you,” Thomas breathed. “Have… have a good rest of the meeting, James.” He hung up.

James stared at his phone. Something definitely had happened between the time when he saw Thomas earlier this evening and right now. Thomas had strict instructions to stay in the house. Did someone come into the house? What the hell happened?

He was forced to shelve the thoughts when he heard the door open. His phone went back to his pocket, and he picked up his glass of alcohol, loosening his posture on the couch just as Ben stepped inside. He watched as the boy closed and locked the door behind him.

“Is the conversation so secretive?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ben laughed, shaking his head. A curl fell loose, falling into his face, and he tucked it back behind his ear as he placed his own glass – filled with dark liquid and smelling of rum – on the table. He sat down, leaned forward, and extended his hand out. James blinked.

“Hi,” Ben said. “My name is Charles Adams.” 

Adams. Supreme Court Judge John Adams, and his wife, major media mogul Abigail Smith-Adams. Four children, out of whom only Abigail and Quincy, the name of the second of whom was surely to make up for the unoriginality of the first’s, appeared in the papers; the daughter following the mother’s footsteps, the son the father’s.

The other two sons might as well not exist.

“Nice to meet you, Judge Madison,” Ben continued.

Slowly, James cocked his head to the side. He took a sip of his cognac, letting the liquid wet his lips and tongue. Ben’s hand didn’t drop.

“You’re a little north of D.C., Mr Adams,” he murmured.

“Please,” Ben said. “Call me Charlie. Or Ben, if that’s what you’re used to. Not Mr Adams.” He leaned further forward, dark eyes bright with a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Mr Adams is my father, though he and Mrs Smith-Adams would rather I not declare that to anyone.”

There was no rule in the Debauchee that required anyone to reveal their real names. The only rule was that people were honest about their needs and wants. The unspoken convention was they revealed their reasons as well. At some point.

“Self-medication,” James said, cocking his head to the side. “That’s what you said.”

Ben threw his head back and laughed. “I really shouldn’t be surprised that you remember an off-hand comment like that from so long ago,” he said. “And aren’t you surprised that I know who you are?”

James snorted quietly, shaking his head. “My face was plastered all over the papers only a while ago,” he reminded. When he was first nominated to a District Court Judge straight from being a practicing defence lawyer. His lips twitched slightly. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t keep up on that part of the news.”

“Old habits,” Ben agreed. His hand was still extended. 

“Nice to meet you too,” James said, finally taking it. When Ben laughed, he found his own lips twitching upwards as well.

Strange; only Thomas was capable of doing that. Something else odd that happened tonight. James really should start tallying properly.

“That’s not why I asked to talk to you, by the way,” Ben said, taking a sip out of his rum and coke.

When James lifted the other eyebrow at him, he shrugged, and then leaned forward with his hands loosely clasped between his knees.

“I said once that sometimes things get too much,” Ben said. “Too much input here,” he tapped the side of his head, “and I can’t deal with it. This works – _you_ work – better than any kind of medication I’ve ever tried in my life.”

“Yes,” James nodded. “I remember.”

“But you didn’t tell me why you chose me as well,” Ben said. “And because you didn’t, I found myself irrepressibly curious. I’ve been trying to figure it out throughout this entire time.”

James stilled.

“You have him, don’t you?” Ben asked. “The man you were using me as a substitute for. Mr Jefferson.”

“This,” James said, the word heavily-weighted in the air, “is very presumptuous of you.”

The attempt at intimidation clearly didn’t work: Ben’s shoulders shook, and he chuckled into the rim of his glass. “You’re a difficult read, Mr Madison,” he said, bright eyes narrowed into slits. He had never looked less like Thomas than in that moment. “But I’m used to mysteries, and you’re one that can be uncovered once I found the Rosetta stone.”

He took a long drink. “Why did you come today when you already have the real thing?”

 _Ah_. So this was what it came down to: insecurity. James shook his head. “I signed a contract,” he said. “And…” He trailed off.

Surely it was terrible of him, because Thomas needed him so much. But Thomas _needed him so much_ , and being around him was nearly stifling. James’s shoulders were broad, but surely no width was enough to carry the weight of a man’s entire world. And every time he even _looked_ at Thomas, he wanted to…

James sipped his cognac. He smiled. “I’m rather fond of you,” he said. 

When Ben’s eyes brightened, James placed the glass back down on the table. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and caught those eyes.

“What brought this on?” he asked.

Ben didn’t answer immediately. He swirled the glass around in his hand; the ball of ice clinked against the sides. 

“I said that you work better than any medication,” he started finally, “because that’s true. Not just because of what you do, but also…” He shook his head, chuckling to himself.

“Your focus is quite something, Mr Madison,” Ben told him, eyes intense upon him. “When you look at me, your entire attention is on me. I look into your eyes and all I see is myself. It makes it really easy for me to just push away everything else, even before you ask me to kneel.”

His glass thudded heavily onto the table between them. “That focus wasn’t there today, Mr Madison.”

James’s breath hitched. He opened his mouth. “I’m—” he began.

Holding up a hand, Ben stopped him in his tracks. He was giving James that lopsided smile again. “Apologies are not what I’m looking for,” he said. 

“Then what _are_ you looking for?” 

“An answer,” Ben shrugged. “At first, I thought it was because you already had the person you want, and so you’re thinking about him. But… you have always been thinking about him when you’re with me, but your focus hasn’t wavered until today. It’s something else.”

“You want to know what that ‘something else’ is.”

“Yeah,” Ben nodded. His shoulders shook, just slightly. “I figure that I deserve it.”

“Because you’ve been serving as substitute?”

“Hell no,” Ben laughed, shaking his head. “I’ve been using you as medication, remember? One cancels out the other. No, it’s more that… We have a connection with each other, don’t we?”

This time, James couldn’t help but bark a laugh. “Do you believe us friends?” he asked, scepticism coating every word. 

“ _Connection_ ,” Ben repeated, emphasising the word. “You have more dirt on me than most, and vice versa, and we’re using that for each other’s benefit instead of detriment. Isn’t that the definition of a connection?”

“That,” James said, drawing out the word, “is a very cynical way of looking at things.”

Shrugging, Ben spread out his hands. “Like you implied: you take a guy out of D.C., but you can’t take D.C. out of the guy.”

“Perhaps,” James nodded. “But, right now, we have an equal amount of dirt on each other. You’re asking for more without giving any first.”

“For someone who just said that I’m being cynical, you sure slipped into that perspective quickly,” Ben commented, voice dry.

“Like you implied,” James said, with precisely the same amount of dryness, “I am a judge.” To slip into others’ perspectives, weigh their validities against each other, and then decide the next possible course of action: that was the very definition of his job. And it usually wasn’t as easy as Ben was making it.

Ben chuckled again. “Alright,” he said, crossing his legs. “Dirt. How about…” He tapped his lip.

“My parents kicked me out of the house because they found me _in flagrante delicto_ with my male college roommate a few years back,” he said. “The hall they donated to U of M was entirely because they wanted to keep things hush-hush about that.”

Slowly, James raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t this,” he waved a hand outwards, indicating not only the room but the entire club, “even worse?”

“Of course not,” Ben said. This time, when he laughed, it was a bitter, mirthless sound. “To them, this is an eccentricity. _That_ is an identity. One can be tolerated. The other… makes the kid a lot less useful.” 

James looked at the boy. No; he wasn’t really a boy, was he? There were lines around his eyes, faint but definitely there. He was nearing thirty, if not already thirty. If he searched for the time when the University of Massachusetts constructed the Hall named after either John or Abigail Adams, he was sure that the incident Ben mentioned was at least seven years ago.

Yet that was the first thing Ben thought of.

Dirt. Not on his parents. On himself. An exposure of vulnerability. Like what they usually did in the play area, only in a different form and without a contract. Out of faith.

He picked up the glass of cognac, swirling the amber liquid around. He shouldn’t be drinking, especially when he forbade Thomas to do it. But then again, he had claimed Thomas, and yet he was here. His lips twitched upwards into a faint smile.

Lifting his head, he met Ben’s eyes. He took a sip of alcohol. “I want him,” he said. “That’s what’s bothering me.”

As he expected, Ben understood immediately. He could practically see the pieces snap into place behind those dark eyes.

“Ah,” Ben said. “And you find that difficult to deal with.”

“To say the least,” James murmured.

Picking up his alcohol, Ben drained it. “You know, when you first offered me the contract, I asked around about you,” he said. His tongue darted out to lick at the ball of ice. “And throughout the time I have known you, I thought I had you completely pegged as asexual.”

James blinked. Slowly, he cocked his head. “What… do you mean?”

Ben stared at him. His hand froze halfway from where he was lifting his glass further up to his mouth, and his eyes widened to near-comical size.

“You are,” Ben started. “You are one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever met, and you don’t know what that word means.”

Narrowing his eyes, James leaned forward. “‘A’ is a Latinate prefix that means ‘without’ or ‘not’,” he stated flatly. “Asexual, as a word itself, means ‘without sex’. It’s used in science to describe reproduction that occurs without need for an opposite partner. I’m not exactly an amoeba.”

“That’s,” Ben started. He put down his glass, and rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re not an amoeba. Definitely not. Christ,” he said. “What I’m saying is that I _thought_ you’re someone who doesn’t experience sexual attraction whatsoever.”

This time, it was James who was staring. “There is a word for that,” he asked. Somehow, his voice wouldn’t obey him; wouldn’t allow him to put an upward inflection on the last word to turn it into a question.

“I think you need to be on the Internet more,” Ben said, lips still twitching. He buried his face into his hands. James felt an immense sense of irritation towards him – it had been a very long time since someone laughed at him, and he never liked it when they did – but he tried to rein that in with more alcohol down his throat.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ben said. “It’s just… Look, I was really worried. Like ‘oops, gravity doesn’t work in the same way it used to’ kind of worried. But just…”

He took a deep breath. Waved a hand. “Never mind. Have you ever heard of demisexuality?”

James blinked. He cocked his head. “French prefix, meaning ‘half’,” he said slowly. “How do you have half a sexuality?”

“When you’re only attracted to someone when you have a strong emotional connection to them,” Ben shrugged. “It’s not a very well-known term, actually. It’s just known mostly on the Internet, so…” 

Somewhere during his tirade, James had stopped listening. His mind was still picking up on the words and remembering them, of course, but he wasn’t processing them. That very first line: _only attracted to someone when you have a strong emotional connection to them_.

He had never been a particularly emotional person. The one person, the _only_ person, who could evoke enough of a reaction in him to make him drop everything, move across state lines, and even retake the bar, all because he asked… was Thomas. There had only ever been Thomas.

Of course there would only be Thomas.

Ben was still talking. James leaned forward, and took the man’s face with both hands. He dragged Ben across the table, careful to avoid the glasses, and crushed their mouths together. He grabbed those thin wrists right before they started flailing in the air, and pinned Ben down onto the table as he took that mouth.

When he pulled back, Ben’s eyes were glazed, his breathing a complete wreck.

“Thank you,” James said. He patted the curls lightly.

“Mr Madison,” Ben said, and stopped when James’s finger pressed over his mouth.

“After we’re done, you can call me James,” he said. He waited until Ben nodded. Then he leaned in, and kissed him again, just as hard as before.

Ben’s nails were clawed at his hands, every part they could reach. James let go of his wrists, shifting his hands down to Ben’s hips as he picked him up. Then he dropped back onto the couch, spreading those muscular thighs around his own hips. His hand sank into Ben’s hair, and tugged on the strands lightly.

“Good boy,” he murmured, teeth scraping over Ben’s clean-shaven jaw. “My good boy. So precious to me.”

The sound Ben made was nearly inhuman: a ragged, twisting sob. He writhed in James’s lap, fingers clenching and unclenching over his shoulders. “Sir,” he gasped. “Sir, sir.”

James pressed his lips onto Ben’s temple. Dirt and vulnerability and _gifts_. He should talk to Ben properly about this. He would definitely do that later. Now...

“Charlie,” he murmured into the curve of Ben’s ear. “Charlie. My precious boy.” His nails scraped down Ben’s back, following the knobs of his spine.

“My darling son.”

Shoving his face into James’s neck, Ben _wailed_. His arms wrapped around James’s shoulders, clinging and pressing against him as hard as he could.

“Daddy,” he breathed. “ _Daddy_.”

“Shh,” James murmured. He carded through Ben’s hair, slow and gently. “I’m here, precious boy.” He pressed another kiss to Ben’s temple, skirting close to his hairline. “Right here,” he murmured.

The night was getting late. He should go home to Thomas. But Thomas could wait. The storm still brewing within him that only skirted around the name instead of being enveloped by it could wait. Right now, it didn’t matter that the storm ripped apart his control whenever he looked at Thomas; didn’t matter that James still had no way of finding the eye, much less getting out of its way.

Ben had given him words. There was dirt and vulnerability and gifts to repay.

*** 

_April 2, Saturday_

He called her the same way he always did: demanding, without warning and with a deadline for when she was supposed to appear at his house. Just one thing was off: it wasn’t the middle of the night. She checked the clock: eight in the evening.

Angelica’s gaze was heavy on her. Sally turned, and tried to give a smile. “I have to go,” she said.

Long fingers carded through her curls, pulling out the bobby pins Sally used to keep her hair back while she studied. Leather squeaked lightly as Angelica scooted forward from the couch – they were in her apartment instead of Sally’s dorm room – and leaned forward, holding her gaze.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Angelica told her, voice soft. “I can come with you. You know that.”

“No,” Sally said immediately, shaking her head. “I… I want you to come with me.” Angelica was smarter than she was, and so much more self-assured. Standing up to him wouldn’t be a problem for her. But…

“But I have to do this for myself,” she continued, meeting those dark eyes with her own and hoping that the fear coiling in her gut wouldn’t show. “You know that.”

Closing her eyes, Angelica sighed. She leaned forward, mouth slanting over Sally’s in a long, chaste kiss.

“Yeah,” she said once they pulled apart. “I know.”

Her fingers were still tangled in Sally’s curls. Sally sighed, reaching up and tugging them away. She brushed a kiss over a slim wrist. “You have to let me go,” she said, keeping her voice as gentle as possible. The sound of the clock’s ticking was loud in the room. “You have to let me do this by myself.”

When Angelica didn’t answer, Sally stood up. She put her books on the table before walking over to the couch, taking Angelica’s face with both hands. Leaning forward, she pressed their foreheads together, inhaling the warmth of Angelica’s skin.

“Help me call a cab?”

Angelica’s fingers trailed down her back, nails scraping over her spine. Her hands planted themselves on Sally’s hips as her head turned, nose nuzzling over her jaw.

“Okay,” she said, and pulled away.

By the time the cab arrived, there were still seventeen minutes left from the half hour she had been given. Sally kissed Angelica at the door anyway, breathing in her scent and breath and locking both deep into her lungs. She hoped that it would give her some strength.

Jefferson wasn’t standing at the entrance hall. Sally blinked, her heart thumping even louder in her ears. This was something strange, something out of the usual routine. And Jefferson was… He was very attached to his routines, wasn’t he? She fiddled with the zip of her hoodie, pulling it down and then back up again. She took a deep breath and walked deeper into the house.

He was dressed in a waistcoat, bowtie, and slacks when she first saw him. He sat on the couch with his shoes removed and legs tucked upwards, a huge file crammed somehow into the space between his chest and his thighs. His hair was pulled back with a scarf in a colour that was darker and duller than anything she had ever seen him wear, whether here or on television. He didn’t look up when she entered.

The whirl of the ventilator was loud. Jefferson took a long drag from the cigarette between his fingers. Smoke escaped between his lips. He turned the page of whatever he was reading. He was waiting.

Sally kept her silence. She shoved her hands into her pockets. She walked to the chair opposite his spot on the couch. Her shoes made quiet thumps on the richly-carpeted floor of the living room. She sat down.

Jefferson took another drag. He flicked his cigarette in the direction of the glass ashtray on the table. He continued to read. He turned the page.

There was no clock in the living room. Sally counted breaths. It was almost the same thing.

At one hundred and twenty-three, Jefferson crushed his cigarette butt into the ashtray. His case file slammed closed, the sound reverberating around the room. Sally refused to flinch; her hands tightened on her knees. He shoved the file to the side of the couch.

“I’ve been doing a little research,” he started. His voice was very soft. Sally refused to lean in.

“When it comes to activities that are generally classified under the acronym BDSM,” he continued, “it’s agreed upon that there must be informed consent. Information being given, laid out properly – sometimes in the form of a contract – and an agreement by both sides for such activities to take place.”

He picked up his cigarette pack from the table. Stroked his thumb slowly over one side. With the same deliberation, he turned his head, and met her eyes.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t figure out what you’re doing?”

Sally fought down the sudden urge to laugh. Just when she found her footing, just when she knew what was happening in her life, here he was again, threatening to upend all of it. Trying to reshape the world according to what was convenient to him, as Angelica would put it.

Angelica. Sally relaxed her fingers on her knees. She didn’t smile.

“Mr Jefferson,” she said, keeping her voice as even as she could though it threatened to shake. “All I did was what you asked me to do.”

“Really,” Jefferson arched an eyebrow. “When did you become so terribly accommodating?”

“At,” Sally started. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, and dug her nails into her palms. “At around the same time when you gained all of the power over my education and my future, I’d presume.”

Jefferson stilled. Then he threw his head back and laughed. Loud, raucous, the mocking edge in it sharp enough to cut. Sally drove her nails deeper into her palms so she wouldn’t flinch.

Then he stopped as suddenly as he started. He stood up and walked over to her. His hand sunk into the chair’s cushion, and he used his full height to loom over her entirely.

“You’re trying to make this into something that is _my_ fault,” he said flatly.

“No, Mr Jefferson,” she said quietly. “I made the choice myself.” She believed that, wholly and completely, and she would admit that even to his face. Especially to his face.

She wasn’t his puppet. She refused to be his puppet, powerless and buffeted according to the choices he made. She made her choices and they were _hers._

“So you admit it, then,” he said, voice poisonous. “You know what I can do to you. It won’t be nearly as terrible as what you did to me, but I can certainly try.”

Sally stifled the urge to close her eyes. She met his gaze instead. “I made the choice myself,” she repeated. “But the choice I made was entirely because of the circumstances that you forced me into, Mr Jefferson.” She took a breath, and steeled herself.

“If there is anyone at fault, it is you.”

“Me,” Jefferson said. The incredulity in his voice was so thick that it seemed to knock him backwards: he threw his head back. His shoulders shook, and he gave that horrible cackle again. “You did that, and you said it was _my_ fault.”

 _That_. _What you did to me_. He was avoiding the issue, she realised suddenly. She pushed down the urge to smile; to give him any hint about what was going on in her head. He controlled that enough times around and she refused to give him any more.

“What,” she said, keeping her voice even, “do you think that I did to you?” A pause, then she added: “Mr Jefferson.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he snapped at her immediately. “You were about to _confess_ to what you have done.”

“A confession has no meaning unless the accused knows exactly what they confessing to,” Sally shot back immediately. Angelica told her: _he’s a lawyer, and he thinks like a lawyer._

He wasn’t saying a word. His eyes were narrowed upon her. His breathing was loud in the room.

Sally pressed the advantage she saw: “What are you accusing me of?”

“You know what you’ve done,” he said. He leaned in further, so close that his heavy exhales were ghosting across her skin. She killed the instinctive tremors before they could begin. Now wasn’t the time.

“I don’t know what you think I’ve done,” she said. “You’re not telling me, Mr Jefferson. You’re avoiding telling me. I cannot understand, much less confess, to a crime that you didn’t state.”

Another breath. “There’s a reason why the charges are always read to a defendant at the start of every trial, right?” she continued. “So that the accused knows what it is that they have supposedly done.”

Reaching out, her hand splayed upon his chest. She felt the shudder go through him, spreading out from her touch. “What are you accusing me of?” she repeated, voice soft.

His eyes closed. She curled her fingers, nails scraping across his silk shirt. A button strained against its threads. She let go, and it snapped back into its place. She felt more than heard the way his breathing hitched.

The very first time, she thought: _Like recognises like_. The same line came to her now as his lips parted. If she moved her hand up, if she closed it around his throat, she was sure – absolutely sure – that he would tip his head back. If she squeezed, he might even go to his knees. No, she knew he would. Those instincts were even closer to the surface now than they were the last time she saw him.

She dropped her hand onto her lap.

“Mr Jefferson,” she said, barely above a whisper. “What are you accusing me of?”

“You’re,” he started. His voice seemed to snap in the middle of the word. He shuddered again. His lips moved, but no sound escaped. She watched his mouth: it was moving in the same motions, over and over again, but she could catch nothing but _rule_ and _number_ , over and over again.

It didn’t matter.

Slowly, his eyes opened. They focused on her. “You did it again,” he said, and the poison was even thicker in his voice now. “Again, Sally. You did it again.”

Tipping her head up, Sally met his gaze. “What,” she said again, “are you accusing me of?”

There was no sound for a few seconds. Nothing but their breaths. Then he _moved_.

Sally was lifted to her feet. Thick glass went clattering down to the carpet, ash spraying everywhere. Her back slammed against the table, shoulders immediately screaming in pain. His hands were fisted in her hoodie, bunching the cloth, his knuckles close enough to his throat to threaten her breathing. 

She exhaled, low and slow. She didn’t move, and continued to look up to him. She hoped that he couldn’t hear how hard her heart was beating, or how that coil of fear was tightening and growing in her stomach. 

“You,” he said, leaning in until his face filled her entire vision, “took advantage of me.”

“That’s not what you want to say,” Sally murmured. “That is not the charge you want me to confess to.”

Jefferson’s eyes narrowed on hers. His fists tightened, white-knuckled, on her hoodie, and pressed her even harder against the table. Sally didn’t move.

“Alright,” he said finally. His knuckle dug straight into her collarbone. “I was trying to put it in better words so that it’ll make things better for you, but since you’re so determined…”

His lips curved upwards. He bared his teeth at her, and his dark eyes were wild. “You _raped me_ , Sally.”

Finally. Finally she could let go.

Sally’s shoulders shook. She arched as much as she could beneath him, not fighting out of his grip but trying to get more air into her lungs, and she laughed. The sound of it was alien to her – so loud, so amused, and yet so terrible and so dark at the same time. It didn’t sound like her own voice. It didn’t sound like what she was capable of.

 _Say that you punched someone_ , Angelica said. Sally would never punch anyone. She would never want to do anything bad to anyone.

His slap snapped her head to the side. She continued to laugh, and he hit the other side of her face. She didn’t, _couldn’t_ , stop.

When his hand raised again, she reached out with both hands. Her nails dug into his wrist. The laughter died inside her almost immediately, and now she bared her teeth at him, eyes taking in the wildness of his expression and the sheer _rage_ on his face.

“Look at you, Mr Jefferson,” she said softly. “Look at where you have me.”

“I should—”

“You have me pinned here,” Sally continued, speaking over him. He spoke over her enough. “ _Here_ , pinned like a butterfly. I can’t push you off, Mr Jefferson. I can’t fight against you. You’re taller and stronger than I am.” Her smile widened. The sides of her cheeks hurt from it. “You’re wealthier and more eloquent than I am.”

Her fingers dug deeper between his wrist bones. He hissed, and tried to yank his hand away. She held onto it as tightly as she could.

“This is all I can do, Mr Jefferson,” she said, forcing out the words through gritted teeth now. “This is _all I can do._ ”

“Let me go,” he said. He pulled at his wrist. She pressed her nails even deeper into his skin, feeling it break.

His other hand closed around her neck.

“Look,” Sally said again, “at where you have me.” Her eyes were burning.

“You’re making _excuses_ ,” he spat out, practically throwing the words to her face. “This is… this is not the same thing as what you did— what you’re still doing—”

“Not different,” Sally wrenched the words out of her throat. It was getting harder and harder to breathe while he was trying to strangle her like this. “It’s not different.”

Meeting his eyes, she let her smile fade. “If there’s anyone who is a rapist here, Mr Jefferson, it is _you_.”

Before he could react, she brought his captured hand closer. She turned her head, and bit down _hard_ onto his palm.

He yelped, rearing back. She sank her teeth down as much as she could, tasting blood on her tongue before she let go. She wasn’t held down anymore, pinned down anymore, and now she drove her elbow into his sternum, shoving him off of her. His arms flailed in the air before he fell onto the ground on his back.

She scrambled after him. One hand to his shoulder. Then she drew her other hand back, and smacked him as hard as she could across the face.

The same way as she always did.

“You _asked_ ,” she breathed out. “You _asked this of me_ , Mr Jefferson. You _asked_. Don’t you… don’t you _dare_ …”

His hand caught hers now, grip tight enough to grind her bones together. Sally hissed, biting down on the inside of the cheek as pain burst inside her. She tried to pull her hand back, but he was grabbing onto her collar again, dragging her down onto the ground, pinning her there with a hand on her shoulder.

“That should be my line,” he started. She drove her elbow into his throat. He choked, and she scrambled away from him.

Grey nudged at the edge of her vision. A tidal wave of it, threatening to drag her down, drown her. Not now. _Not now_.

“Look at what you’re doing,” she managed to pant out through her too-quick breaths. No, no, she shouldn’t say that. He wasn’t getting it. He was moving towards her and the wall was barely inches away.

 _Think like a lawyer_ , Angelica said. But Sally wasn’t a lawyer and she didn’t want to be. Angelica brought her files. Transcripts. Things that Jefferson said. She remembered none of them, her mind was empty—

Something. She had something. One of the first she read because it was right on top of the file Angelica gave to her. Something that made her laugh, helpless and dark and hoarse, because he always, always—

Her back hit the wall. Paintings rattled. His face loomed above hers, eyes shadowed by his hair.

“Consent,” she gasped out. “Consent is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot—” His hand froze in between his chest and her throat.. “Cannot hold up in court!”

Sally’s knees gave up just at the moment. She crashed down onto the ground, trying to breathe. Her eyes burned. She fought back a sob; it escaped as a rattling inhale. Fluorescent light poured down on her. He was moving away.

“Don’t you dare… don’t you dare accuse me of raping you,” she panted to the ground. “Don’t you fucking dare. You hold all of the cards. You have everything. Everything, you bastard. You took everything.”

Pressing her eyes against her arm, she let the rebellious tears soak into the cloth before she lifted her head up. She refused to let him see her cry.

“If there’s a rapist in this room, it’s you,” she told him, tipping her head up. Somehow, her voice managed to have barely a tremor in it. “You could’ve stopped the money at any time. You could’ve refused to pay for my tuition. A word from you, the great District Attorney, could’ve me thrown out of school. What the hell am I supposed to do?” Her shoulders shook. “My entire future is in your hands. All of it.”

The sobs were coming faster than she could swallow them back. Sally squeezed her eyes shut. She pushed her hands against the floor, and stood up on shaky feet. She refused to let her arms wrap around herself.

He was still standing there, barely an inch away from her. Completely still and staring.

“You hold all of the cards,” she repeated. “All of them. Because you took everything. If the world were right and just, then Father’s money, at least a little of it, should’ve come to us. If Martha had kept her promise,” the sound of her half-sister’s name had him jerking, like a marionette with his strings tugged on, “I wouldn’t have needed to do this.”

She smiled at him, crooked and bitter and terrible. “If you were at all a good person, you would’ve bothered to find out why I even needed the money instead of making me into a living sex toy with your dead wife’s face.”

He was still frozen. She closed the last small distance between them. Her footstep echoed in the large room, in the enormous house empty except for the two of them. She stood in front of him, and looked up into those dark, blank eyes. She could feel him breathing.

“I know what I’ve done,” she said softy. God help her, she knew all too well. Despite Angelica’s best efforts, she still felt dirty every single time she thought about it. “But do you? Do you understand what you’ve done, Mr Jefferson?”

Slowly, his eyes closed. He breathed out. Sally kept her hands by her side, fingers slightly curled inwards. She waited.

“Everything I did,” he said finally, “was legal.”

Now it was Sally’s turn to close her eyes. His words weren’t a surprise: she might not have guessed that this was what he would say, but she had gone through this particular scene enough times in her head to guess at the gist of what he would say.

Sometimes she wished that she could hate this man. Sometimes she wished that she would simply wrap everything she knew of him up in a box, label it “bastard”, and push it all away. This was one of those times.

“Just because it was legal doesn’t mean it was right,” she said. She waited until he opened his eyes, until his lips were parted in some attempt to reply, before she continued.

“You said it yourself, Mr Jefferson,” she murmured. “‘Any law that enforces the tyranny of the powerful upon the powerless, any law that entraps the righteous individual and stops them from acting in accordance to their inner morality, cannot be allowed to stand.’”

His eyes widened. She smiled again, cocking her head to the side. “Right?”

When Sally first read those words, she was seventeen. Old enough to know better, but still helpless to stop the thrill that went through her. Because she thought he _knew_. She thought he _understood_. She was proud, so proud, that she was related to him in some way.

“That’s not…” he started. He shook his head. “That’s not what I _meant_.”

“No,” Sally said. “You meant exactly that. You meant those words precisely how I took them.” Her shoulders shook. A quiet laugh escaped her, mirthless. “You want rules and ideals imposed on the world, but you think yourself an exception when they inconvenience you.”

The reasons why she couldn’t hate Thomas Jefferson, in a collection of images: the article with the headline ‘A Declaration of Independence’; his tear-streaked face; the dullness of his eyes at Martha’s funeral; his lips, forming _Martha, Martha, Martha_ , over and over again.

His eyes were fixed upon her face. He was looking at her like he always did, when he had sunk into that illusion he crafted in his head; that place where Sally didn’t exist and Martha wasn’t dead.

She met that gaze, and she smiled. “Hypocrite, Mr Jefferson,” she whispered. “That’s the word you’re looking for.”

Familiarity bred contempt, the usual saying went. But, for Sally, familiarity bred understanding. When she understood, she could not hate. She wished she could, but no matter how deeply she dug within herself, she could not find that malice. It simply didn’t exist within her. No matter how much she wished it did.

There was only that coiling fear that turned her stomach into knots, and a wish that she would never have to see him ever again. And this: the layer of dirt embedded in her skin, impossible to wash away.

Reaching up, she lifted her hood and set it over her face. She shoved her hands into her pockets, and hunched her shoulders. Martha would never do any of those things.

“I’ll see myself out,” she told him when his eyes started to clear again. She turned away.

He caught her arm before she could take a single step. His grip was far too tight.

“Sally,” he said. Her name sounded distorted from his lips. “What about the money?”

Closing her eyes, she breathed out. When she managed to stifle that rising panic, she turned around, and met his eyes. He was smiling again, as if he found a way to win.

“What about the deal?” he asked.

Slowly, Sally shook her head. “When I first agreed, I thought that I could do this,” she said. “I thought that it was a fair trade. But… but it wasn’t. It was a trade I shouldn’t have had to make in the first place.”

Her hand dropped onto his wrist. She pried his fingers off, one by one. His hand dropped back to his side, flopping like a dying fish. She was almost tempted to laugh at the mental image.

Why couldn’t she hate this man?

“I leave it to you to decide what you want to do,” she said.

He didn’t stop her again as she headed out for the entrance hall. She pulled open the door and walked out into the mid-spring night. She kept walking: out of the gate, down the road until she could no longer see his house, the house he’d probably bought with Father’s money, even when she squinted.

Drawing her hoodie tighter around her, she found a curb and sat down on it. She took out her phone. There was a single text message. She didn’t read it; simply pressed the button to call the sender.

“Pick me up?” she asked. Her head dropped onto her knees. “Please?”

“Where are you, my girl?” Angelica asked.

“Further up the road from his house,” Sally said. “I don’t have the exact address.”

“It’s alright,” Angelica soothed. “I’ll find you.”

When Angelica’s scarlet Audi pulled up next to her within the next five minutes, Sally wasn’t surprised. Angelica always managed to find her. She remained on the curb, listening to the clicking of Angelica’s heels on the concrete. She stood up when Angelica wrapped her arms around her, and they half-walked, half-fell into the car’s backseat. Sally buried her face into a slim shoulder.

“Shh,” Angelica murmured into her hair. Her thumb drew nonsensical shapes on Sally’s back. “You won, my girl. You won.”

Sally closed her eyes. Angelica’s shirt started to feel wet beneath them.

“Doesn’t feel like winning,” she said.

“No,” Angelica said. Her breath wafted over Sally’s skin, warm. “I suppose it never does.”

Despite her best efforts, Sally couldn’t seem to run out of tears. She held onto Angelica. If she could hate him… if she could hate him, then she could be the hero of this story, and he would be the villain she just vanquished. There would be some kind of celebration. Fireworks in the sky reflecting off her sword. A dragon at her feet instead of a man.

But she couldn’t hate him. Just like she couldn’t hate Martha. She was only tired. She was so tired.

If she could hate him, then there would be an ending to this story.

They stayed in the car for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles Adams really did exist. John and Abigail Adams really were horrible people with regards to their son’s homosexuality. University of Massachusetts really has a John Adams Hall. I apologise to any student or faculty member for misusing that fact. (Why are John and Abigail Adams so much older than everyone else in this fic? Because I want to write Charles Adams. That’s it, really.)
> 
> Daddy kink really isn’t my thing. This is all I’m going to write about it. Please note: sometimes people have daddy kinks and no father-related trauma, and vice versa. Ben/Charles is not representative of an entire group.
> 
> I had a whole write-up regarding Sally’s entire plot arc, and how it’s the one that is the most personal to me out of the six and which I have put the most effort into. But I think that if you have followed this fic up until Chapter 16, it’s not necessary. So I have only two things: firstly, I hope that the scene is as emotionally satisfying as it needs to be, and secondly, please don’t have too much hope in Jefferson suddenly reaching an epiphany or changing his ways – it doesn’t happen that quickly. Take it from someone who has lived with a lot of people like him.
> 
> Also, I love all of you who commented on last chapter. You helped make things better. I’m on the way there. Thank you and I’ll get to your comments by the time next chapter’s up, I promise.


	17. all the things he can’t afford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Afford_ : to have enough to buy what you need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First scene: Discussion and depiction of _very_ complicated class issues; discussion of power dynamics in a relationship with a massive age difference, especially with one person underage. Second scene: fluff (yes, this fic has fluff, I can write fluff), and subtle hints of manipulation and self-hatred.

_April 4, Monday_  
  
“I don’t know if I should tell him,” Sally said.

Angelica didn’t look up from her tablet. She only reached out, taking Sally’s hand into hers, and lifted it up to press a kiss to the knuckles. Her other hand continued tapping on the screen.

She had a new case, Sally remembered; something else that was assigned to her after she finished the burglary one a few days ago. This one was a homicide case that happened in Upper Manhattan. She had told Sally about it Friday last week, right before the news broke on the papers.

Now it was Monday; a workday. Angelica should be in her office: reading through files, interviewing the suspect, talking to officials, or even attending press conferences. But instead, she was _here_ , in Sally’s dorm room. 

“Sorry,” Angelica said, finally looking up. Her tablet thumped down to the mattress when she shoved it over, leaning forward. “People were being incompetent again, so I had to handle it.”

Sally shook her head. She squeezed Angelica’s hand, just a little, opening her mouth. But before she could repeat herself, Angelica continued, “You have to get this over with. Better early than later.”

“That’s not…” Sally said. She bit her lip. She knew that she _had_ to tell Jimmy about what had happened- what was still happening with Jefferson. She couldn’t keep her brother in the dark anymore: he was _here_ , and she had been lying to him for long enough already. “But… what we do. What I did… to… to him. To Jefferson.”

The name still felt strange on his tongue without _Mister_ appended before it. Sally swallowed hard, and ducked her head down.

Angelica’s fingers brushed over her jaw, lifting her head up. Sally blinked, and she nuzzled lightly over the thin fingers.

“Then don’t include that part,” Angelica said softly. “That doesn’t change much about what he did to you.”

“No, I can’t just…” Sally bit her lip again, turning her head to stare out of the window. It didn’t show much; certainly not Jimmy coming up the road because her dorm window didn’t face that direction. “It wouldn’t be honest.”

“Sally,” Angelica started.

“Let me finish,” Sally said. She gripped Angelica’s hand tighter. “I just… I don’t want him to think of me as someone who was forced into it, you know what I mean? I went to… to Jefferson to make the deal myself. I agreed to it. I’ll tell Jimmy that. But I should… I should also tell him about what I did when I was with Jefferson so he won’t… he won’t…” She faltered, staring down at Angelica’s hand. The knuckles were paled by the grip, but the shade was still darker than her own.

“You don’t want him to think of you as a victim,” Angelica finished for her.

“Yeah,” Sally nodded. She looked up, and tried to give Angelica a small smile. “You said… it was self-defence, right? And maybe the circumstances were wrong. But I still made the choice. It was still my choice to make the hit.”

“Is it still a choice, though?” Angelica asked, voice gentle. Her thumb ran over Sally’s knuckles. “If there was no other way for you to protect yourself… is it still a choice?”

“I’m not… I….” Sally hesitated. _Think like a lawyer_ , Angelica said. Sally learned how to, and she couldn’t forget.

A shudder ran through her entire body as she leaned in, pressing her face against Angelica’s shoulder. “There’s a reason why homicide due to self-defence is still considered manslaughter, right?” she said, practically mumbling under her breath. “It’s still something wrong. What I did was still something _wrong_.”

“Maybe,” Angelica said. She drew her arm around Sally, pulling her close and pressing a kiss into her hair. “But you didn’t murder Jefferson.” A pause. Sally felt her smile against her skin, a little too sharp for mirth. “Though sometimes I wish you had.”

“No, you don’t,” Sally refuted.

“I don’t,” Angelica agreed easily. “Not because he doesn’t deserve it, but because you’re better than that. But, Sally…” Her fingers drew large circles on Sally’s back, over and over again.

“You don’t have to tell Jimmy about that part now,” she told her. “What you’re going to say to him today will be enough of a shock already. You can give him time to process, to understand, before you tell him about this part.”

Sally opened her mouth, but Angelica kissed her temple again. “You’re already telling him that you made the deal of your own free will,” she said softly. “I don’t understand why that makes such a difference to you, but I think… I think he will.”

 _It’s because I made the choice_ , Sally wanted to say. But she knew, too, that Angelica didn’t understand. She didn’t know what it was like to be buffeted from one thunderstorm to another, constantly caught within the winds; she didn’t know the visceral need for control, any kind of control, in her life, no matter how much grasping at it would stain her fingers, her hands, and her arms all the way up to the elbows with every attempt.

Jimmy would understand, Sally thought. She hoped that he would understand.

She let out a heavy breath, burying her face into Angelica’s neck. “Sometimes I wish that you could understand,” she said. Because Angelica tried. She was still trying even now. She wished, too, that she could put things in words better so Angelica could understand.

“So do I,” Angelica murmured into her hair. “But you have Jimmy, and your family, for that. I want to get it, but… maybe it is better that I don’t.”

“Why?” Sally lifted her head, blinking.

“Because then I look at things a different way than you do,” Angelica said, her lips curving up into a wry smile. Her thumb brushed lightly over the corner of Sally’s mouth. “I see what you don’t, just as you see what I don’t. If we just see everything the same way, then there’s not much to talk about, is there?”

Sally stared. After a while, Angelica’s lips twitched even further. She chuckled, long and low, turning her head and burying her face into Sally’s hair.

“Okay,” she said, shoulders shaking. “Okay, that’s a stupid idea when taken too far. But you get what I mean.”

“Maybe,” Sally said, her own lips curving up, “you should phrase that better, Ms Schuyler, Senator’s daughter.”

Angelica dipped her head down, brushing their lips together. “I don’t understand, but I know it’s how you think,” she said softly. “That it’s something important to you, and I’ll always remember that. Better?”

Rolling her eyes, Sally huffed. She flopped her full weight onto Angelica, wrapping her arms around her neck and resting her cheek right above the other woman’s steadily-beating heart. “Better,” she said. “You’re making sense again.”

“So glad to meet your approval,” Angelica said, dry. She kissed the top of Sally’s head, holding her.

They stayed that way for a moment more. Then there was a knock on the door. Sally jerked, but Angelica’s thumb rubbed her back for another moment. And Sally breathed – inhale, exhale – before she climbed out of Angelica’s arms and the bed.

“Here goes nothing,” she said. When she tried to smile, her mouth felt strange, so she stopped. 

Another steadying breath, and she opened the door.

Jimmy stood there, hands shoved into his pockets. He wasn’t looking at her, instead frowning down the hallway. Then he seemed to catch sight of her out of the corner of his eyes, and practically jumped.

“This place is a maze,” he said, frowning. He drew a hand over his hair. “The design is shit.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Sally said, lips twitching.

“Still bears saying,” he said. When she continued standing there, he raised an eyebrow. “What is it, girlie? We gonna have this conversation at the door?”

“No, I just…” Sally hesitated. She looked into those dark eyes – so like her own, because all four of them had Father’s eyes – before she shrugged, hooking her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans. “Can you make me a promise, Jimmy?”

“Anything for you, girlie,” Jimmy said easily, with complete sincerity. His eyes were wide and expectant, with a clear thread of curiosity.

“Whatever I say… whatever I tell you… can you promise to not jump to conclusions until I’ve told you the whole story?” she asked. Then, after a moment: “Please?”

Blinking, Jimmy stared at her. Then he raised his hand, rubbing the back of his neck, then over his mouth and jaw. “So it is something serious, huh,” he said. “Alright. I… Shit, girlie, you know me.” She did; that was why she was asking this of him. “But I’ll try.”

His lips crooked up towards her. “That good enough?”

“Yeah,” Sally said. She pulled open the door wider, and let him step through.

She knew the precise moment when Jimmy saw Angelica: the widening of his eyes, the stiffening of his body. She could practically hear the gears in his mind work as he took in Angelica’s posture on the bed, cross-legged and shoulders straight, both perfectly incongruous and perfectly fitting to her black stockings, A-line skirt, and tailored blouse. Then: his eyes flicked sideways, to Sally’s chair and Angelica’s expensive silk blazer draped over the back of it. Down: Angelica’s shoes, pushed up against the bed; black heels with crimson soles.

Angelica stood up from the bed. She reached out her hand. “Angelica Schuyler,” she said, and Sally practically _heard_ Jimmy’s brain screech to a halt.

Because everyone in New York had heard of the Schuylers. It was hard not to when Philip Schuyler, the patriarch, had served as the city’s Senator for decades.

Jimmy took Angelica’s hand. He shook it. “Pleasure, ma’am,” he said, every word slow. His eyes were narrowed.

He turned towards Sally. Sally shrugged. She had discussed this with Angelica, practically rehearsed it. She knew what she was supposed to say.

“My girlfriend.”

That’s was _not_ what she was supposed to say. She and Angelica had agreed: one thing at a time, for Jimmy. Sally would introduce Angelica as her ‘friend’, and nothing more. It wasn’t a lie, because Angelica _was_ her friend, and neither of them wanted Jimmy to start freaking out about Sally liking women when the actual issue was that much more significant.

But Jimmy didn’t look shocked. His eyes travelled from Angelica to Sally. Then he dropped Angelica’s hand, strode over the Sally’s chair. He yanked it out and pushed it towards the bed. He sat down.

“Okay,” he said, his voice cutting through the thick silence that had descended between them. “This what you want to tell me, girlie?”

His eyes didn’t leave Angelica even once

 _No_ , Sally wanted to say; wanted to ask Jimmy to forget what she said. But she knew Jimmy wouldn’t let it go, not right now, and the last thing she wanted was for her brother to come to precisely the wrong conclusions. So she swallowed, nodded, and said:

“Part of it, yeah.”

“We deal with the other part later, yeah?” Jimmy said. His eyes were still fixed on Angelica. Then he smiled, lips curving upwards. It looked insincere; it looked utterly grotesque on his always-honest face.

“Pardon me, Ms Schuyler,” he said, and his usual Virginian twang was completely _gone_ , disappeared like smoke, “I know it’s impolite to ask a woman her age. But how old _are_ you?”

Oh. _Oh_. Of all the things… of all the things she expected Jimmy to take offence at, Angelica’s _age_ was the very last on the list.

Angelica sat down on the edge of the bed. Her eyes didn’t leave Jimmy’s as she folded her hands, leaning forward with her elbow on her knees. “Thirty,” she said.

“Eleven years,” Jimmy said. He whistled, the sound sharp. “Well, this is…” His finger rose, and he tapped his lip in a gesture that reeked of falseness and insincerity.

At the moment, he looked nothing like the brother Sally had always thought she knew.

“Let me tell you a story, Ms Schuyler,” Jimmy said, his voice soft. “Let me know if it sounds familiar.”

“Jimmy,” Sally tried to say. 

“Shh, girlie,” Jimmy raised a hand. “I have to tell Ms Schuyler this. I think it’s pretty important.”

She knew exactly what Jimmy was going to say. But she only nodded. Somehow, she managed to find the edge of the bed, and sat down on it.

“There was this… rich man, once upon a time,” Jimmy said, every word measured and crisp. “Mid-thirties. Quite a guy, really. Born rich, made himself richer, a good contributing citizen to society.” His smile was razor-sharp. “His wife died. Then he met a woman. His servant in the house. Pretty, she was. Gorgeous, really. She was just out of high school.”

His shoulders shook. “The rest of the story is familiar. The rich man was a bastard.” He cocked his head, leaning forward. His eyes were slits. 

“Tell me, Ms Schuyler, to you believe yourself Lady Bluebeard to Sally’s Cinderella? Coming to sweep her off her feet, and then stowing her into a closet with all of your other wives?”

“No,” Angelica said softly. “I don’t.”

Sally couldn’t take it anymore. She leaned forward, breaking the heavy gaze between them.

“Momma would be very angry that you’re using her stories like this,” she said, tone flat as she caught Jimmy’s eyes. Hurt flashed like lightning across the dark depths, and though Sally’s heart twisted, she pressed on. “It’s not the same, Jimmy.”

“Tell me how it’s not the same,” Jimmy said.

“Angelica’s not in any position of power over me,” she said in the same tone. “I’m not beholden to her for anything. And she might be older than me, she might know more than I do, and she might be born rich… But Jimmy… that doesn’t mean she’s a bad person. It doesn’t mean what we have is a bad thing.”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me.”

“You’re not being fair,” Sally pointed out. “Your boss, Ms Weeks. Her brother. They’re rich, too, yeah?” Beside her, Angelica twitched, most likely out of surprise – Sally had never told her anything about who Jimmy worked for. “But you always told me that they’re good people.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Jimmy protested.

Stamping down on the urge to roll her eyes, Sally sighed. She leaned forward a little more, and said, perfectly dry: “Tell me how it’s not the same.”

Jimmy stared at her, lips pressing tighter and tighter until they were just one flat, white line. Then he ran his hand over his head, and his shoulders shook. 

“Fine, girlie,” he said, huffing out the words. “You’ve got me there.” Then he looked up, eyes narrowing again. “But if she’s not your professor or anything like that, how’d you two meet?”

She exchanged a glance with Angelica. Angelica shrugged: _I leave it up to you,_ her eyes said, and Sally sighed. She dragged a hand over her hair.

Her brother. Hers to deal with. Right. She took a deep breath.

“Back in Virginia,” she said. As Jimmy’s eyes widened, she continued: “Four years ago.”

“What,” he blurted. He stared at her, then to Angelica. “When you were fifteen, girlie?”

Sally shrugged. “I literally bumped into her on the streets after school one day. I spilled coffee all over the sidewalk, and she offered to buy me a new one. We got to talking.”

Angelica, she knew, had been in Virginia for some kind of conference or meeting related to the death penalty in the state. Sally wasn’t particularly sure, and she hadn’t ask Angelica to clarify. It didn’t matter.

“We didn’t do anything until I was legal,” she said, because that did matter. She had to push down a flinch, too, because… well. It wasn’t entirely true. But they were talking about not bringing in _that_ particular aspect of their relationship just now – they might have been talking about Jefferson, but Sally thought it applied to this, too.

Especially since Angelica hadn’t exactly introducedin her to the concept. True, she was the person who led Sally into that world, but Sally had already known it existed by then.

Jimmy was still staring. He rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing his knuckles over his jaw. “Girlie,” he started. Then he shook his head, slumping back into the chair. “You know that made things worse, right? You were _fifteen_. That’s…” 

He didn’t seem to be able to find the word for what ‘that’ was.

“I know,” Angelica said before Sally could even say a word. She was staring at her hands, folded on top of one another on her crossed knees. “I know that it wasn’t right. I know that there’s a big difference between us in terms of age.”

She hesitated, biting her lip. She looked more nervous than Sally had ever seen her. “I don’t know how much my word means to you, Mr Hemings,” Sally blinked, thrown for a moment at the title, “but I give it to you that I have never and will never take advantage of Sally.”

“Yeah,” Sally cut in. “She never did.”

Sitting up straight, Jimmy’s eyes darted between the two of them. He didn’t look convinced.

“You promised to not jump to conclusions,” she said, desperately.

“I’m trying to keep that promise,” Jimmy said, voice dry. “But it’s pretty damned hard, girlie. 

“Look, I…” Sally bit her lip. “I know what it means to be taken advantage of, okay? I know, Jimmy. And this isn’t it. This is the opposite.”

Watching Jimmy carefully, she saw the moment when the implications of her words sunk into her brother’s mind: those dark eyes widened again, and then narrowed.

“Girlie,” he said slowly. “What do you mean by that?”

“Remember your promise,” Sally said. “If… if I tell you, you have to _remember your promise_.”

Jimmy’s knuckles were turning white between his knees. “I told you I’m going to _try_ ,” he said. When Sally didn’t let up on the imploring gaze, he sighed. “This what you called me here for?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“This why she’s,” he jerked his head to Angelica, “here?”

Sally nodded.

“Okay,” Jimmy said. He took a deep breath. Some colour rushed back into his hands. “Okay. I’m remembering my promise. Hit me.”

Sally bit her lip. She took a long, deep breath. Her hand clawed on the sheets. Then Angelica caught it, and squeezed tight.

Somehow, that gave her enough courage.

“When… when I first got the acceptance to Columbia, I…” she ducked her head down, she took a deep breath. “I didn’t get a scholarship to go with it. You remember that?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said.

“So I came… I came to New York,” she continued. “I went to find… find Jefferson. I talked to him, and he offered to pay for me. A one-of-a-kind scholarship, because I was part of his wife’s family.”

“You told me that, yeah,” Jimmy nodded. There was a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes.

Ducking her head down, Sally squeezed Angelica’s hand tighter. Strength. An anchor. She could do this. She had to do this.

“I lied,” she whispered. “He didn’t offer me anything like that at all.”

Jimmy didn’t say a thing. He was completely still. When Sally looked at him, his jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle was twitching at the side of it.

“What actually happened?” he asked finally.

“Do you… do you remember Martha?” Sally asked desperately. “What… what she looked like?” Before Jimmy could answer, she swallowed, and forced herself to continue:

“How much I look like her?”

“You’re not,” Jimmy started. His voice seemed to die in his throat. He opened and closed his mouth like a drowning fish.

“Jefferson offered me a deal,” Sally said. She could barely raise her voice above a whisper, but it didn’t matter – the room was utterly silent. Even the building itself seemed to be wrapped in that sudden, unnatural hush; the usual chaos died down. “He would pay for my tuition all the way past medical school if… if…” she swallowed, and looked away.

“If I pretend to be Martha for him.”

She was telling Jimmy this because she wanted him to understand. She _needed_ him to understand. 

“Pretend to be Martha,” Jimmy said. His voice was completely empty of any emotion. “What did he ask you to do while pretending to be Martha?” He spat out the name like it was a piece of dirt stuck between his teeth.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sally shook her head. “Have sex with him,” she whispered. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?” Jimmy said in that same tone.

“I didn’t tell you,” Sally said. Her eyes were starting to burn. “I didn’t… I lied to you. I _lied_.”

“ _Christ_ ,” she heard Jimmy swear. Then there were footsteps, and Angelica’s hand squeezed tighter on hers. Sally shuddered when rough-callused hands brushed over the sides of her face.

When she opened her eyes, Jimmy was on his knees in front of her. His fingertips brushed from her temple to the bridge of her nose, and bopped the very tip of it. Sally trembled again, throat too full, a half-hysterical giggle caught in its depth.

“That don’t matter,” Jimmy said, voice soft. “It don’t matter, girlie. You’re telling me now, yeah? Don’t beat yourself over that, girlie. It don’t matter.”

“It should matter,” Sally said. “I lied to you, Jimmy. I _lied_.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. He took Sally’s face with both hands, tugging her down until their foreheads were leaning together. “But I’m not pissed ‘bout that, girlie. Not at you.”

There was a pause. Then Jimmy pulled back, and turned the full force of his gaze to Angelica.

“Where were you during all this, Ms Schuyler?” his voice was made of pure venom. “If you ain’t taking advantage of her, then where were you during all _this_?”

Angelica closed her eyes. She looked terribly tired, terribly small. “In London,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell her either,” Sally said, grabbing for Jimmy’s hand with her free one. She twined their fingers together, squeezing hard. “Don’t be mad at her. I lied to her too. It’s my fault that no one knew.”

“Like hell it was your fault,” Jimmy burst out. “Girlie—”

“You were scared,” Angelica interrupted. She wrapped her arm around Sally’s shoulders, pulling her close. “You were terrified about what was happening. You thought that we would hate you if you knew. It’s not your fault. People do things they shouldn’t when they’re scared, Sally.”

Sally wanted to believe that. She wanted so badly to believe in what they were both saying. But no matter how hard she tried to breathe in their words, the lump in her throat was too thick for them to surmount.

She turned her head and buried her face into Angelica’s neck again. “Sorry,” she said, squeezing both of their hands as hard as she could, trying to convince them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t…” 

“Girlie,” Jimmy said. When Sally didn’t turn around, his fingers brushed over her jaw. Gentle but insistent, nudging her to look at him. She shuddered, feeling Angelica squeezed her arm. She forced her eyes open to look at them.

“I’m not angry at you for not telling me,” Jimmy said, voice very soft. “It don’t matter that you lied. It don’t matter that you didn’t tell me before. You’re telling me now, and that’s what matters, yeah? That’s what matters.”

Shaking her head, Sally tried to turn away. But Jimmy’s hand was cupping her face now, holding her still. 

“Is this still going on?” he asked.

“No, I…” she wasn’t sure. She had still woken up at three in the morning today, frantically checking her phone to see if there were missed calls or texts from a familiar and terrible series of digits. She rubbed her eyes over her hands.

“I told him to stop,” she said softly. “I don’t know if he’ll listen, but… I’m not going to go when he calls anymore.” She took a deep breath, and repeated it: “I’m _not_.”

Every time she said that out loud, she felt the determination solidify even more inside her. So she would say it, again and again, until it turned into stone and weighted her down if she ever thought of going.

“Good,” Jimmy breathed. He pushed himself up, pressing a kiss on her forehead. Sally let out a hiccupping sob, and his hand brushed over the back of her neck, soothing. “That’s a brave thing, girlie. You did a damned brave thing.”

“But it means,” she hiccupped again, and scrubbed her eyes once more. “He might not… he…”

“It’s the money, isn’t it?” Jimmy asked, tone infinitely gentle. “The problem is with the money?”

Sally nodded. “I’ve been trying to apply for scholarships and grants and bursaries,” she said. “Everything I could, but… but it’s pretty well-known that he’s paying for my tuition, so…” She stared down at her hands. “I might not…”

“Don’t you have money?” Jimmy asked, turning to Angelica.

Angelica smiled, bitter and mirthless. “Yeah,” she sighed. “But if I give it… I’ll be… I’ll…”

“You’d be taking advantage,” Jimmy finished for her, because he understood. The light in his eyes changed as he cocked his head at Angelica. “Well. I can almost believe that you’re a good person now.”

Shoulders shaking, Angelica barked out a laugh. “Sally yelled at me about it,” she said. “Very harshly.”

“But you listened,” Jimmy pointed out. “That’s something.”

Then he turned his eyes back to Sally. His smile gentled even further, and he brushed the back of his hand over Sally’s cheek. “Look here, girlie,” he said. “I’ve got some savings from my work. Think it’d be enough to tide you over for next semester. And I’ll ask Robbie, because I know he’s been saving up for Pete. But Pete can fend for himself for now.”

He kissed Sally’s forehead again before she could speak. “Listen,” he said. “We’ll figure something out. We’ll make do. At worst, we’ll take out a loan. I’ll be your first guarantor, and I’ll yell at Robbie to come down to sign as second if you don’t want Angelica here to do it. But we’ll figure something out.”

“Don’t tell Robbie,” Sally said before she could help herself. “Please, Jimmy. Don’t tell Robbie.”

“I ain’t telling him anything unless you want me to,” Jimmy promised immediately. “He should know better than ask anyway.”

“But it’s…” Sally bit her lip. “It’s not fair. All of you found your own way, and I shouldn’t be… I shouldn’t…”

“Girlie,” Jimmy said, lips quirked up slightly. “You’re gonna be a doctor. You’re gonna do great things, big things, once you get your education. First Dr Hemings in history. Least we can do is to help you up there.”

“That’s still not…” Sally tried to protest.

“There can be another way,” Angelica interrupted her. She squeezed Sally’s arm, and gave Jimmy another one of her lopsided smiles. “Your father’s money.”

Jimmy snorted immediately. “What money?” he drawled.

“Exactly,” Angelica nodded. “The Wayles money should’ve come to all of you. Part of it, at least.”

“Yeah, that’s what we thought,” Jimmy said, in that same tone. He spread his hands out. “Look at what’s happening right now.”

“But that’s not right,” Angelica said, undeterred. 

“Are you telling me that you’re going to try to sue Jefferson for the money?” Jimmy asked, incredulity sharp in his voice. “You won’t have a leg to stand on. The bastard’s will was really clear ‘bout everything going to Martha. We’re not even _legally_ his kids.”

“I’m not going to fight a case I know I’ll lose,” Angelica said, still calm. “But the courtroom isn’t the only place where I can bring this up to Jefferson.”

When Jimmy blinked, Angelica shrugged. “I’m an Assistant District Attorney,” she said. 

“You work _for_ him,” Jimmy blinked.

“I work in the same office,” she corrected. “We both work for the city.” Then, before Jimmy could say another word, she held up a hand. “That means that I know his buttons. I know him. I can try to get him to do what he should’ve done years ago.”

Sally closed her eyes. She dropped her head onto Angelica’s shoulder. “That depends on him agreeing,” she whispered. She didn’t have much hope of that happening. It was far more likely that he would just take the money away and pretend nothing was happening.

There was another way, too; something that she knew Angelica had thought of. They could go to the press and tell them everything about what had happened between her and Jefferson. But that meant exposing herself entirely to the eyes of the world. And while Sally knew that choices made in desperate circumstances were still choices, and didn’t absolve the person who put her in those circumstances to begin with…

She didn’t have much hope that anyone else would understand. She knew she would be blamed for it. And the last thing she wanted was to have her name – her mother’s name, her brothers’ names – dragged down into the gutter for an attempt that probably wouldn’t succeed.

Jimmy said that she was brave. But what was that courage worth, when it didn’t change anything at all? When she was still under Jefferson’s mercy?

“Yeah,” Angelica said. She rubbed Sally’s arm lightly, tracing nonsensical shapes with her thumbs. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying. Or I’m going to stop looking for other ways.”

Nodding, Sally turned her head, burying her face into Angelica’s shoulder. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I should be doing more. I shouldn’t be making you do all the work. Sorry.”

“Shh,” Angelica’s hand slipped down, tangling with hers. “Don’t apologise, Sally.”

“Look at me, girlie,” Jimmy said, voice gentle. When Sally opened her eyes, her brother was smiling at her. Soft and terribly sad, with a heavy bitterness in his eyes. His fingers carded through her curls.

“You remember when I first graduated?” he asked her. “When the economy was utter shit?”

“Yeah,” Sally nodded. She remembered that very well. 

“I told you all that I got a job immediately after stepping out of college,” he said. “Told you guys how things went the first few months, even. Yeah?” 

Sally nodded again.

“Well,” Jimmy said. He ducked his head down, chuckling. “I fucking lied, girlie.” 

Wait, what?

Sitting back on his heels, Jimmy shoved his hands into his pockets. He slid a crooked smile to his sister. “First three, four months in New York, I lived on the streets and slept mostly in trains,” he said. “Got a bunch of odd jobs, anything I could get that wasn’t illegal, and I used most of the money for prepaid phone cards so I could call you guys.”

“That’s…” Sally blinked. Her voice died in her throat.

“At some point, I started drawing stuff to sell,” he shrugged. “Brooklyn Bridge, Empire State Building, all of the kitschy tourist things. Didn’t have a permit, so that’s illegal. The pictures sold okay, but not well enough because I ran out of paper and pencils and ink. So I started having to sell my old drawings too. Straight out of my portfolio.”

Angelica was silent beside her. Sally wondered if she had ever heard of this particular view of New York.

“Someone caught sight of it, once,” he said. “Well, he caught sight of _me_ , actually, and he gave me his number. Pretty sure he was hitting on me.” He shrugged, grinning out of the corner of his mouth. “Told me his sister was CEO of a pretty damned big construction company to try to impress me.”

_What?_

“I agreed to let him bring me out a couple of times,” Jimmy continued as if he didn’t realise that Sally was full-out gaping at him “Convinced him to get me an interview with his sister’s company while we were on those dates. I even got him to pay the dry-cleaning for the suit I needed for the interview. I went for the interview, and I got the job. Pretty sure because he asked his sister to hire me. Then I told him that I didn’t like guys, and lied to his sister that he’s been hitting on me at work. She talked to him, and he stopped.”

Sally couldn’t contain herself anymore. “Levi Weeks got you your job because he wanted to have sex with you,” she stated flatly, because she had to be sure.

“That’s not my point, girlie,” he said, giving her a wry smile. “Though yeah, it’s true. He picked me off the streets, changed my entire life, and he’s even a nice guy. But I just used him like a piece of rag and threw him away, and lied to you all at the same time.”

There was a heavy weight in Sally’s chest.

“Look, girlie,” he sighed, low and heavy. “I ain’t perfect. I’ve done shit that’s not good, shit that Momma taught me better than to do. But no matter what I’ve done, I’m good with it, because…” he laughed, running a hand over his head. “If there’s anything our bastard father taught me, it’s that asking someone for sex in return for getting out of shit is just not right. ‘Cause that’s called taking advantage. Like hell I was going to let that happen to me, after Momma.”

“Oh,” Sally said, because she wasn’t capable of saying anything else. 

“Robbie knows,” Jimmy said. “’Bout what I did.” Sally blinked, but she wasn’t surprised: Jimmy was always closest to Robbie. “He yelled in my face for ten minutes straight when I first told him. Practically hit me, even.”

“Why?” Sally croaked. Robbie was… Robbie was always angry. But he was never violent. He refused to be.

“He said that I should’ve just told him what was happening,” Jimmy shrugged. “He told me that he could’ve sent me some money to tide things over. That I didn’t have to do things like that.”

Pausing, Jimmy ran a hand over his hair. His lips quirked slightly upwards. “I shouldn’t’ve to do things like he once did, he said.”

Before Sally could even say a word, Jimmy held up a hand. “I ain’t telling you what Robbie did,” he said. “It ain’t for me to tell.”

Sally’s hands were shaking. “Did Pete,” she started, her voice cracking, “did Pete have to do something like that too?”

“No idea,” Jimmy said. “I won’t be surprised if he did. Robbie’s trying to make sure that if he hasn’t, he never will.”

Robbie was saving money up for Pete. Pete didn’t like his current major; didn’t want to get a job as an accountant in the future. Sally squeezed her eyes shut, falling forward. Jimmy caught her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “Why didn’t any of you tell me?”

“Because what we did was shit,” her brother said, his breath warm against her cheek. “Because… I don’t know ‘bout Robbie, but I didn’t want any of you to think that I’m bad. And…”

He laughed, quiet and bitter. “I still wanted you and Pete to believe that it’s possible for you to rise up in the world without getting your hands filthy with muck. Know what I mean?”

Of course Sally knew. “Yeah,” she whispered. 

“That’s,” Angelica said. Her voice was soft, but it was loud as a thunderclap in Sally’s ears: aside from the reassuring presence of her arm, Sally had almost forgotten she was there. She pulled away from Jimmy, turning to her.

“What you both had to do… That’s not…” she was shaking her head, biting her lip hard. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s not something you should feel guilt over. What else could you have done? What other choice could you have made?”

“It was,” Sally said. She practically jerked in surprise at the strength of her own voice. “It was, Angelica.”

” _Why_?”

“Because…” she looked at Jimmy, but his eyes were fixed upon Angelica, waiting. Sally took a deep breath. “Because if you said that we have no choice, then… then we’re helpless again. And living with the guilt is better than the helplessness.”

They saw what helplessness did to Momma, all of them. They knew what it did to a person. There was nothing any of them wouldn’t do in order to not go through the same thing. 

Not just ‘her’ anymore. Her brothers were the same. It wasn’t just her.

Jimmy rested his hand over hers, squeezing. Sally took a deep breath, steeling herself. “We had a choice,” she said. “We could’ve stayed where we were, and never gotten out. We could’ve. But we didn’t want to do that. We made the choices we did in order to get out. We took a step. Even if it was into muck, even if it got us dirty for it, it was a step. It was _ours_.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she let out a tremulous breath. “It was _mine_.”

Even though it was Jefferson’s fault that she’d had to make the choice, the choice she’d made was _hers_. The guilt was righteous; it was hers. She owned it along with the choices she had made. She had no other way of explaining it better; no way of explaining the visceral need to have something that was hers; to have her actions to be hers instead of anyone else’s.

Angelica still looked troubled, confused. But that was alright, Sally realised. She didn’t _want_ Angelica to understand. If Angelica understood this twisting knot in her chest, it would mean that something had gone horribly wrong. 

“You ain’t telling me everything that happened between you and Jefferson, are you?” Jimmy asked.

Sally shook her head. “I don’t…” she paused. “I don’t want to tell you. Not right now.”

“Alright,” Jimmy said easily, his hand squeezing hers. “You tell me whenever you’re ready, girlie.” He gave her a smile, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

“God knows I haven’t got anything to stand on if I start lecturing you ‘bout honesty,” he said.

Then he turned to Angelica. Reaching out, he clapped her on the shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Let me tell you how I see it, Ms Schuyler,” he said. 

When Angelica nodded, Jimmy ran a hand over his hair. He tipped his head up, and sighed. “The situation we’re in is so shit that we have to do something fucked up and wrong to get out of it,” he said quietly. “If you take away the fact that we did something wrong, then you’re also saying that the situation isn’t _that_ shit.”

His eyes slanted over hers. “You try to make me, or us, look better, and you make the shit around us look better, too. You know what I mean?”

Angelica looked like she had been struck by lightning. “ _Oh_ ,” she said, breath caught in her throat. 

“I’ve never…” Sally licked her lips. Her head spun. She wondered if she looked the same as Angelica right now: wide-eyed and staring. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“You’ve had a hell lot less time to think than I did, girlie,” Jimmy said. He huffed out a sharp breath, rocking back on his heels before he stood up.

Before she realised what she was doing, Sally reached out and grabbed his arm. “Stay?” she whispered.

“Don’t you have class, girlie?” he asked, blinking. But he didn’t pull out of her grasp.

She checked the clock: nearly noon. “Not for a couple of hours,” she said, swallowing hard. “You… you don’t have to go until then.”

“Okay,” Jimmy said. He moved over to the side of the bed. Sally nudged Angelica – who was still half-frozen – over, and shifted herself until Jimmy could sit on the bed with them. Her hand remained on her brother’s sleeve.

“Hey,” she said after silence had descended over them, and Angelica had peeled herself out of her stone-like state.

“Yeah?” Jimmy blinked, looking at her. His lids were half-shut.

“Remember what I said about throwing yourself to wolves?” she asked. When he nodded, she squeezed his arm. “Don’t go near Jefferson, okay?”

She knew her brother very well: his eyes immediately closed, and he jerked his head away. 

“Dammit, girlie,” he said, breath escaping him in a rattling sigh. 

“Don’t,” she repeated. “Let me fight this one myself. Please.”

Slowly, he turned towards her. He leaned in close, and kissed the top of her head. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said.

The hand not tangled with Angelica’s found his, and Sally squeezed lightly. “Jimmy,” she said.

“Fine,” he said, sounding frustrated. “I’m not going to.” His grip on her hand tightened, for just a moment. “But don’t you thank me for that.”

“Okay,” Sally said, swallowing down the words. She shifted slightly, and Angelica’s hand slipped around her waist, tightening as she drew her closer. Jimmy came along, too, and they were in a tangled pile on the bed, with Sally in the middle.

“I still don’t really get it,” Angelica told her. “I get it. I understand the logic. But that’s a different thing from getting it.”

“You don’t have to,” Sally murmured back. “Different perspectives are a good thing, remember?”

Angelica laughed against her hair. “Yeah,” she said.

She fell silent after that. Sally didn’t see the need to speak either, and though Jimmy was drumming his fingers on her shoulder, he was quiet, too.

They should get lunch before she had to head out for class. But that could happen later. Now Sally had her brother, and Angelica. The woman she loved, and her family… Well.

Maybe, this coming summer, she could bring Angelica home to meet Momma.

***

_April 4, Monday_

There were potted plants lining the path to Burr’s house. Carnations of several shades, a wilting tulip, and a rectangle pot bursting with white-streaked green leaves of a plant Alexander didn’t know the name of. 

He stared at them. Had they been here before? Never mind.

His hand poked the gate lightly. It didn’t budge; it was locked. Alexander checked his watch – it was eight in the evening; none of them would have gone to bed yet. The gate hadn’t been locked the last time he was here.

Then again, Burr had had no reason to suspect that he would appear the last time he did. Alexander chewed on the inside of his lip. He told himself, again, that this was necessary. He pressed the doorbell. It buzzed dully. He waited two minutes, counting down the seconds. Then he buzzed again.

When the door opened, he was expecting Sarah. But it was Burr himself who stood there, barely more than a slim silhouette backlit by the light pouring out from the insides of the house. Streetlights cast deep shadows over his eyes, deepening the lines beside them and also on the sides of his mouth.

“Hi,” Alexander said. He raised his hand to wave, and dropped it back down before it could even reach as high as his waist.

“What are you doing here, Hamilton?” Burr asked. It was phrased as a question, but his flat tone turned it into a statement.

“Uh,” Alexander ducked his head. _To get information from you_ was the answer hovering on his tongue, but he knew it was the very last thing he should say. He swallowed, and looked up at Burr beneath his lashes.

“Can I come in before I tell you?”

“No,” Burr said. 

“Okay.” Not that Hamilton expected anything else. He bit his lip, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I… came here to apologise,” he said. It was both the truth and wasn’t.

“Apologise,” Burr repeated. “ _You_ are here to apologise.”

“It’s something that I do sometimes,” Alexander said, unable to keep to wry deprecation out from his tone. Even with the distance and shadows, he could still see Burr’s eyebrow lift up to his hairline. He shrugged; he deserved that, he supposed.

“Said a bunch of stuff I shouldn’t have,” he said. He bit his lip, and then slipped an arm out of his backpack’s straps. He drew out the things he’d bought for the visit. “I came bearing gifts?”

“Beware Greeks,” Burr intoned.

“I’m not Greek,” Alexander pointed out, just because he could. Burr’s other eyebrow joined its mate in his hairline, and Alexander sighed. “There’s no Trojan horse in this,” he shook the packages. “Nothing resembling a horse. I really did come here to apologise.”

Burr continued staring at him. Alexander met his gaze, and hoped desperately that the strange lighting of the place could hide his actual intentions. He shook the packages a little more. He tried to not smile because he knew he would give himself away if he did.

After long moments of this, Burr sighed. Alexander couldn’t hear it, but he could recognise that particular rise and fall of thin shoulders anywhere. He stifled down his smile again as Burr descended the short steps, pulling keys out of his pocket and unlocking the gate.

“Not a horse,” Burr said, stepping back so Alexander could walk in. The gate clanged loudly behind him, and Alexander fought down a flinch. “Something embarrassing, then?”

“Nah,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “I’m pretty sure what I got for you is something you’ll like.” He paused for effect. “And what I got for Theo and Sarah are things they’ll like, too.”

“Hah,” Burr said, stopping right at the doorway of the house. He looked over his shoulder at Alexander. “Didn’t you come to apologise to _me_?”

“Yeah,” Alexander said. He expected this question, and so had rehearsed the answer: “But I came in without a door gift last two time, so… I figured I should probably bring one this time.”

“Door gift,” Burr repeated. He shook his head. “Just when I didn’t think you’d get more ridiculous…” He trailed off.

Alexander knew he was supposed to be chastised for that. He grinned instead, because that was exactly what Burr expected of him. 

“Hey, I _am_ visiting,” he said.

“And the timing has nothing to do with the fact that the trial continues tomorrow,” Burr said. “Of course.”

“It took me that long to find appropriate gifts,” Alexander said, which was the honest and unvarnished truth. He would have come earlier if he could have, but setting up the scene took longer than he thought.

“We’ll see if they’re actually appropriate,” Burr said.

They stopped at the doorway to the living room. Burr glanced at him, and Alexander blinked before he shoved his packages under his arm. Then he zipped up his bag, made himself look a little more presentable – mostly by flapping his fingers over his hair – before he took the packages in hand again. He shoved Burr’s gift into his hand, and stepped inside.

Theo had obviously been watching the door, because she yelled, “Mr Hamilton!” and rushed towards him the moment he appeared. Alexander dropped the other two gifts with a yelp as her small body crashed into his knees. She hugged his leg tightly, and looked up to him.

“You lost a tooth,” Alexander said, a little stupidly.

“Yep!” Theo said. She opened her mouth wide, and prodded one of her molars with a finger. “Another one is loose too,” she said, words garbled.

“That’s gross,” Sarah said, words clearly aimed at Theo. She ruffled the girl’s hair when Theo pouted at her, and gave Alexander a small smile. “Hi, Alexander.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander saw Burr’s eyes narrow; the same reaction he had when Sarah had greeted him this way the last time. He kept his grin restrained with utmost effort; he wasn’t going to make it that obvious how much he liked surprising Burr. “Hey,” he said. Then he picked up the packages from the floor, holding Sarah’s out to her.

“I brought a door gift, this time,” he said. When Theo looked up, he handed hers over, too. “They’re all books, pretty much.”

Theo’s eyes went wide. “Presents!” she cheered. Alexander barely had time to nod before she dragged him over to the couch, pushing him to sit on it before she clambered onto his lap.

“Uh,” Alexander said. He nudged at her shoulder. “Theo?”

“Thank you, Mr Hamilton,” she said solemnly. She didn’t get off his lap. Alexander tipped his head back, and sent a pleading glance towards Burr. Burr ignored him, turning the still-wrapped gift around and around in his hand.

“You’re supposed to unwrap that,” Alexander said helpfully. “Or just tear the paper off like I usually do.” Back when he had friends who would give him gifts, anyway.

“That’s uncivilised,” Burr said. He walked past Alexander to sit himself down on the armchair adjacent to the couch. Sarah, following behind, dropped down next to Theo’s swinging feet.

The little girl had, in the meantime, carefully torn through the wrapping paper. She was folding it – _folding it_ , because Aaron Burr’s child would do that – and putting it on the table.

Alexander had bought her a set of colouring pencils. And: “ _Escape to Wonderland_?” Theo said, poking her finger at the large-emblazoned title.

Burr’s head snapped up. Alexander grinned, and ruffled her hair gently. “Yeah,” he said. “I figured that you’re clever enough to read _Alice_ already.” He picked up the pencils before they could fall out of her lap. “You can colour them any way you like.”

Theo blinked. She looked up at him. “Who’s Alice?” she asked.

“Ah,” Alexander said. He’d prepared for this. Shifting his bag away from where it was stuck between his back and the couch, he took out the novel. 

“This,” he said, pushing it into her hands. “Alice is a girl just a little older than you. She fell into a rabbit hole and ended up into another world entirely.” He tapped the colouring book. “This book has illustrations of places in that world.”

“Oooh,” Theo said. She took the novel, turning it around and around in her hands. Then she shoved it at Alexander and flipped through the pictures, gasping with her hands pressed to her mouth. “They’re so pretty.”

“And very complex,” Alexander nodded gravely. “Just right for a little girl like you.”

Carefully, cautiously, Theo put the books on the couch. She flung her arms around Alexander’s neck, hugging him tight. Her hair tickled Alexander’s nose.

“Thank you, Mr Hamilton,” she murmured.

Sarah had said the last time to just wrap his arms around her. So Alexander did, terribly aware of Burr’s eyes on him the entire time. He patted Theo’s hair gently. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I’m really glad you like them.”

“I like them a lot,” Theo nodded. “You gave me three presents!”

“Well,” Alexander cleared his throat. “I saw the colouring book, and I thought of you. And then I bought colour pencils just in case you don’t have any. And then I thought you might not have read _Alice_ before, and so I bought that too. It’s pretty silly.”

“Not silly,” Theo said. She pulled away, and patted his cheek. She smiled, showing off the gap in her teeth. “You’re very nice, Mr Hamilton.”

Crushing the flinch before it could manifest, Alexander forced a smile and put as much sincerity as he could into it. “I’m glad you think so,” he said, and hoped she wasn’t old enough to recognise sarcasm yet.

Clearly not: “You really are!” she protested immediately. And she opened her mouth.

Alexander was saved from arguing with a four-year-old by the sound of a woman’s giggling. Sarah was laughing over her gift, body bent into half and face buried into the pages.

“My God,” she gasped out. “This is _hilarious_.”

Burr was staring at her, eyes huge and wide. He cocked his head to the side. “What is it?”

Sarah took a deep breath. She scrubbed her knuckles over her face. Then she sat up straight, book in hand, and intoned deeply, “If you don’t stop being sad right now, I’m going to turn on the garbage disposal and listen to the sound of it until you cooperate.”

Of all the comics she could have seen for her first view… Alexander opened his mouth, about to protest, or defend his choice. But Burr’s mouth was twitching upwards. 

As Alexander stared, gaping, Burr slowly put his gift down. He pressed his hand over his mouth, and walked over to Sarah. Sarah shoved the book at him. Both of them watched as he read – Theo was enamoured with the pictures on her illustrations book.

“The game,” Burr said, voice perfectly even and serious, “is stand in a corner and look stupid.” His lips twitched again.

He lifted his eyes, staring at Alexander. “How did you find this?” he asked. And Alexander heard the unspoken question: _how did you know_?

Shrugging, Alexander said, “The Internet.” When Burr continued staring at him, he laughed. “The author used to post her comics online. I found it years ago, and… Well.” He shrugged again, and cleared his throat. He waved towards Burr’s gift.

“You should open it,” he said, softly. 

Burr was still looking at him. Alexander bit his lip, and he gently shifted Theo onto the couch. He walked over to the armchair, picked up the book he had spent hours in the store looking for, and handed it over to Burr.

Long, elegant fingers took it. Then Burr was peeling off the wrapping paper. 

The book revealed had a dark blue cover emblazoned with the title, _Mama Day_. As Burr read through the blurb, Alexander said, softly: “I think you’ll like the protagonist. I think you’ll like all of the characters, actually.”

“Why?” Burr asked. He didn’t look up, but instead was opening to the first page.

“I don’t know,” Alexander said. That was honest, too. “I just thought of you the moment I started flipping through it.” That hadn’t happened with any of the others. That was why he’d kept looking.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, and waited. Eventually, Burr flipped the page. He finished whichever line he was at, and lifted his head. “Thank you,” he said.

So he liked it, then. Alexander resisted the urge to cheer. He told himself that he was glad about this because it took him one step closer to his final goal.

Taking a deep breath, he gave Burr a lopsided smile. “Do I get to make my apology properly, now?”

“Isn’t this supposed to be an apology?” Burr asked, waving the book.

“When have I ever done things halfway?” Alexander shot back. After a moment, he sighed, tugging at his ponytail. “It was only meant to be a… a reason for you to even want to listen to me.”

Dark eyes rested on him for a long moment. It was funny, really; Burr’s gaze had always been a weight, a pressure that was solid and sharp both, pushing down on him even as it pierced through his skin. But now… now there was a certain vulnerability in those dark eyes that Alexander had never seen before.

Maybe it was just his imagination. Maybe he thought there was vulnerability there because he thought he had seen something, the last time. But… but Burr laughed at the comic Alexander had bought Sarah. He laughed at the jokes that Alexander thought no one except him would find funny.

(Laurens probably would, too. But by the time he’d found _Hyperbole and a Half_ and its comics about depression, Laurens was already too far for him to reach with only a book.)

If it wasn’t his imagination, then he might have found a way to understand Burr. Understand him, and… and use the knowledge, because Alexander had only one soul to sell.

Sarah had been watching the two of them. Now she and Burr exchanged a glance, an entire conversation happening within that single second. Sarah nodded, and Burr looked down.

“Alright,” he said finally. His grip tightened on book’s spine. “Come with me, Hamilton.”

Alexander dropped his hand onto Theo’s head. He ruffled her hair lightly, and told her that he would be back in a bit. Then he picked up his backpack and followed Burr out of the living room and into his bedroom.

The door closed. The _thump_ was quiet, but sounded like some kind of death knell anyway. Alexander hid his wince by dumping his backpack on the floor.

Burr was faced away from him. He had ushered Alexander in the room first, and was now staring at the closed door, his hand still wrapped around the knob. The tension in his shoulders looked almost painful. Alexander opened his mouth, and closed it. He waited.

“What do you want, Hamilton?” Burr said finally.

Of all the questions… “Didn’t I just tell you?” he asked, genuine confusion pushing the constant dread out of his mind. “I came here to—”

“I know what you _said_ ,” Burr interrupted. He finally turned, and his eyes were cold and flat, two dull obsidians. “But I find it difficult to take you at your word.”

“Why?” Alexander blurted out before he could help himself. “I don’t really have a reputation for lying, you know.”

Silence. Then Burr said, “No, you don’t.” It sounded like a defeat.

The conversation was getting more and more surreal by the moment. Alexander’s control of the situation – if he’d had any such thing – was slipping with every beat of his rapidly-pounding heart. He swallowed.

“Anyway,” he said, hoping his voice really was as even as it sounded. “Is it really so difficult to believe that I really want to do nothing but apologise?”

“Yes,” Burr said. This time, Alexander had nothing to hide his flinch with. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

Burr’s gaze weighed on him. Alexander dug his nails into his palms so that he didn’t fidget.

“Even if you’re simply here to apologise,” Burr said, every word deliberate, “why would you want to? If you’re worried about the trial, then don’t be: I can be perfectly professional.”

That wasn’t what he was worried about. Alexander was halfway to speaking when Burr was suddenly in front of him, long fingers buried in Alexander’s hair. He tugged, and Alexander’s head dropped back instinctively. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his hair tie drop to the floor.

“Or is _this_ what you want?”

“I,” Alexander started. His voice cracked. He licked his lips, and tried again. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe there are things I want from you. Maybe I want this. Maybe I want us to work well together, too.” _I want the dirt you have on Jefferson, most of all_. “But that does… that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to apologise.”

Burr didn’t speak.

“Look, it’s like,” Alexander continued, words spilling out of his mouth now. “I thought about it? I thought what might happen if I apologise, what I’d… I’d get back. A Dom. My… my co-counsel.” The side of Burr’s jaw twitched, a muscle jumping. Alexander hoped it was because of his implicit apology.

“But most of all it’s that I know I fucked up. I know that. I stepped on something I shouldn’t, I said something I shouldn’t. I do that. I always do that. That’s- that’s why I want to apologise. Because I fucked up and I,” _hurt you_ , no, no he mustn’t think about that, “I reminded you of something bad and I should apologise for that and--”

“Hamilton,” Burr said. “Shut up.”

Alexander’s teeth clacked together. “Sorry,” he gritted out.

The hand in his hair tightened. “What did I _say_?”

They were in Burr’s house. Alexander remembered perfectly well what the man had said: _I don’t mix professional and personal matters._ And sure, maybe both the Debauchee and this place were part of ‘personal’, but Alexander suspected Burr drew an even deeper and wider line to separate the two.

So he swallowed back the _Yes, Master,_ and kept his mouth shut instead. He breathed through his nose. He didn’t fall to his knees.

“Don’t you want answers from me?” Burr asked, a strange note of wonder in his voice.

Alexander didn’t reply – he couldn’t; he didn’t have permission yet. But, no, they were not at the Debauchee. Lines, lines, Burr always drew lines.

He unstuck his jaw.

“Sure I want answers,” he said, because he did and trying to lie about that to _Burr_ was ridiculous. “But, you know, I recognised that look in your eyes. Seen it a couple of times in the mirror.”

Burr’s hand tightened. Alexander drove his nails harder into his palm so he didn’t shudder. He evened out his breathing again.

“I’m not such a terrible person as to force you to tell me what you’d rather not talk about,” he said. “So I’m not… I’m not asking.”

Silence. Alexander tried to not hold his breath; he failed. His vision started to grey at the edges. Burr let go of him, and Alexander swayed on his feet. His exhale rushed out of his mouth in a sudden gust. He started to pitch forward.

There was a hand on his chest, holding him up. Another one on his forehead, fingers clenching into claws. Nails scraped down his face, sending sharp sparks of pain through him. They moved past his jaw, down his throat. The thumb stabbed into the hollow, stopping his breath for a long moment while pain ran through him like lightning.

When Burr let go, Alexander was practically a puddle. He let the hand around his arm lead him towards a chair, and collapsed upon it.

“Apology accepted,” Burr said. Alexander took a couple more moments, trying to get his ragged, torn breaths back into shape, before the words sank in.

“Really?” he practically yelped. When Burr rolled his eyes, Alexander found himself laughing. A little hysterical and far too thin, but with genuine mirth.

“Not laughing at you,” he said, shoving one hand into his mouth while he flapped the other at Burr. “Seriously, not at you. At me. Like. Fuck, I know I’m fucked up, but.” He rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. 

“Fuck,” he said, because it was as good a summary as any. He buried his face into his hands.

Footsteps; Burr walking away from him. Then, weirdly enough, rustling.

“How did you know that I like novels with female protagonists?” 

Huh? Alexander looked up. Burr was flipping through the novel, his brow raised again.

“Oh, uh,” Alexander rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t? Like I said, I thought you immediately when I saw it. That’s pretty much how I find presents.” He paused. “Do you like it?”

“You get an hour after the trial ends to meet me at the club,” Burr said.

Alexander blinked. He cocked his head to the side, pushing down the instinctive annoyance at being as evasive as always. “Does that mean you like it?” he persisted.

Burr snapped the book shut. He looked at Alexander, and he was smiling again. It wasn’t the usual stretch of the lips, but something far smaller. A smile that could be seen more in his eyes than mouth.

The sight of it was like a bullet straight into the chest. Funny; the last time he was here, in this exact room, he had felt the same. Except this time…

This time, the bullet felt poisonous. And Alexander was pretty sure that he was the one who had laced it himself.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he croaked out.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Burr said. He walked over, placing the book on the table.

Wait. Alexander whirled towards him, half-falling out of the chair because Burr was less than an inch away and he really needed to look the man in the face—

“Tomorrow?” he said, practically squawking. Where was all of his dignity? “Seriously?”

Burr looked at him, clearly unimpressed. “It’s too late in the night,” he started. Then something must have shown on Alexander’s face, because Burr stilled, and his expression smoothed out into nothingness.

“Unless you have other plans,” he said.

“No,” Alexander refuted immediately. “No. I just…” What was he expecting? “I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d forgive me so easily.”

Rolling his eyes, Burr crossed his arms. He perched himself on the edge of the table. “You’re halfway to dropping just from a hand in your hair,” he said, and Alexander noted how soft his voice was. “I’m not a man who would deprive someone of what they obviously need out of petty vengeance.”

“Oh,” Alexander said. He licked his lips, and stared down at his hands. Somehow, that made everything even worse. He didn’t think that was possible.

There was only one soul for him to sell. One; only one. If he brought Burr in, he wouldn’t only be selling two. He would be selling four.

“Thanks,” he said. Another swallow, and he forced himself to look at Burr. “I should go now, I think.”

Another surprise: Burr shook his head. Alexander thought he would want to be rid of him as quickly as possible.

“Theo won’t forgive me if you leave now,” Burr said. He pushed away from the table, and headed for the door. “The least you can do is read a couple of pages from _Alice_.”

Alexander stared. “You’ll let me do that?”

“Sarah and I would both be there,” Burr said, voice flat and dry. “What can you do?”

 _Make your daughter like me even more_ , Alexander thought. Because he knew that Theo liked him; couldn’t help the part of himself that crowed at the fact, honestly. But he knew by now that Burr adored his daughter; that the way into Burr’s life was through Theo.

He should be happy. Burr was practically handing him what he wanted on a silver platter. Yet all he could feel was the filth encrusting his skin.

Standing up, he picked up his backpack. Slung it over one shoulder, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Lead the way,” he heard himself say.

Theo flung herself against his leg again when he appeared in the living room. Alexander let her drag him to the armchair, allowed himself to be shoved down and used as a seat. He helped her prop the novel up over her knees. He read to her, tracing his fingers over the words with her small hand on top of his own. On the couch, Burr was sitting next to Sarah, quietly murmuring over Sarah’s new book. Alexander could hear quiet giggles. 

The first time he heard Burr laugh, he was so startled that he lost his place in the paragraph. Theo pulled him back down impatiently.

Later, after Burr and Sarah had put Theo to bed, Burr walked him to the door. They didn’t speak; only stared at each other, Alexander standing on the steps. He almost wanted to turn around, to take Burr’s face in his hands and trace those lines at the sides of his eyes that he’d only realised noticed tonight. He wanted to…

He went back to his apartment. It had never been home, but... 

There were unicorns on the bottom of the door of Theo’s room. Pictures she had drawn on some of the walls of the living room. One on Burr’s desk in his own room. If Alexander had been allowed to the kitchen, he knew he would’ve found pictures there, too.

His apartment was completely empty. He liked it empty.

It was better this way, he knew. He was protecting them. Not just from the demon, but… hadn’t he once thought that he only had a soul to sell? There was nothing left anyway. He’d known that for years; he’d stopped trying to fool himself long ago.

Alexander went to shower. His body still felt real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene between Sally, Angelica, and Jimmy is an encapsulation of the class issues I’ve been exploring throughout this fic. The fact that they acted upon complete bastards is inconsequential: if you say that Sally and Jimmy are right in what they did, you’re saying that bastards deserve terrible things happening to them. That is precisely the same rhetoric used to justify crappy things happening to the working-class: they deserved it because they’re lazy, etc. Dehumanisation of the privileged is still dehumanisation. It’s repeating the cycle instead of breaking it.
> 
> Furthermore, the fact that they _have_ to be immoral to get out of their circumstances means that _there’s no way to be moral and good if you’re poor_. Poverty becomes a trap: on one side, desperation, on the other, morality and laws made for people of very different circumstances but which people trapped in poverty have even _greater_ pressure to adhere to. (For example, those of the working-class need scholarships etc. to go to college, scholarship students have even more stringent rules to follow than normal students, et voila.) Admitting that they’re doing something immoral means admitting that the working-class are trapped in a vicious double-bind that tears them apart no matter where they turn.
> 
> Daveed said it way more eloquently than I can. Go listen to clipping.’s _[Taking Off](http://genius.com/8203-clipping-taking-off-lyrics)_. (This song helped me find words for how I’ve felt for over a decade. I _fucking_ _love_ Daveed Diggs.)
> 
> Hamilton’s gifts to the Burrs: [Hyperbole and a Half for Sarah, ](https://www.amazon.com/Hyperbole-Half-Unfortunate-Situations-Mechanisms/dp/1451666179)[Escape to Wonderland](http://www.amazon.com/Escape-Wonderland-Colouring-Book-Adventure/dp/014136615X) for Theo, and [Mama Day](http://www.amazon.com/Mama-Day-Gloria-Naylor/dp/1501286544) for Aaron.


	18. ev'ry action has its equal and opposite reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the consequences of your actions touch you less than everyone else around you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: sociolinguistics theory (this is a legitimate warning; I warned for philosophy, remember?); also BDSM in a very public place. Second scene: depiction of panic attack, PTSD flashback, an abuser painting himself as a victim, and massive consent issues with all of the grey areas involved, as per usual.

_April 5, Tuesday_

“The court calls Dr Ann Eliza Bleecker to the stand.”

Jefferson’s fourth witness of the day – after Elric Sands’s insurance agent, his finance manager, and the man he bought his airplane tickets from – was a tall white woman with pale skin and dark brown hair streaked with grey. She was dressed in a pantsuit, the slightest hint of lace and ruffles on the collar of her blouse, and a hint of embroidery on her dark slacks. Her sensible court shoes clicked as she stepped up behind the witness’s stand. 

Aaron didn’t bother watching her as she swore on the Bible not to lie. He watched Hamilton instead. His co-counsel had been fidgeting throughout the entire session. He also had not said a single word since stepping into the courtroom, handing the day’s cross-examination to Aaron even though they had agreed weeks ago that it would be his turn today. 

Maybe this was Hamilton’s way of making up for what he had done. Maybe he was banking on Aaron saving the case for him. Both options were equally likely.

“You have been called to court today for your testimony regarding the text messages between Mr Levi Weeks and Mr Elric Sands,” Jefferson said, stepping out from behind his bench. His hands were tucked behind his back, and his shoulders were straight. The posture was extremely familiar.

“What are your credentials?” Jefferson asked.

“I am a tenured professor of Linguistics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” Dr Bleecker said, her every word crisp. “My specialisation is in psycholinguistics and sociolinguistics, and I have published several papers and books about the power dynamics revealed through the speech patterns used by both groups and individuals.”

There, in the audience: a man seated with his legs spread apart, elbows on his knees. Hands linked together, thumbs pressed against his mouth. Gaze fixed upon Jefferson, eyes practically unblinking.

If Aaron squinted and cocked his head to the side, he could almost see the silhouette of Madison superimposed upon Jefferson, and vice versa. 

“Please go ahead with your testimony, Dr Bleecker,” Jefferson said.

“Very well,” the woman said. She spread her hands out upon the witness stand. “I’d like to turn your attention, ladies and gentlemen,” she nodded to the jury, “Your Honour,” to Franklin, “to the following text messages exchanged between Mr Sands and Mr Weeks on November 17, 2015. I will argue in my testimony that Mr Weeks is, in essence, a very capable manipulator.”

The screenshots flashed upon the screen beside Dr Bleecker. Everyone in the courtroom turned towards it, eyes moving across the words being projected. Except: Madison, whose eyes were still fixed upon Jefferson; Jefferson, whose gaze had not shifted from Dr Bleecker; and Hamilton, who was staring at his hands.

Curiouser and curiouser.

“Mr Weeks here uses a form of language considered by linguists to be ‘powerless language’ – the language of those who have less control over a situation and/or conversation. Please take a look at the first text, where he turned a statement into a question with ‘you know’. Also note the two instances where Mr Weeks says ‘I’m not saying’, without stating outright what he _is_ saying. Look also at the three instances where Mr Weeks uses pet names for Mr Sands: one instance of ‘sweetheart’, and two of ‘honey’. These are all examples of what we call hedges: ways to divert attention, to lessen the power of the speech.”

“But if this is powerless language, Dr Bleecker,” Jefferson said as she took a breath. “How does it prove that Mr Weeks is manipulating Mr Sands?”

“I’m getting to that,” Dr Bleecker said. Her eyes didn’t even turn towards Jefferson, still fixed upon the jury. “‘Powerless language’, when it was first conceived as an idea by linguists Atkins and O’Barr in 1980, identified several speech habits of those who are powerless in a situation. In a courtroom like this one, actually.” Her lips curved up into a smile. 

“That was thirty years ago. The concept has changed, but the name stuck. My research throughout the years has shown that powerless language doesn’t equate automatically to the speaker being helpless. It simply means that the speaker has chosen to remove himself as the subject.”

The jury looked rather confused. A couple of them were taking notes, as if they were at a lecture. Aaron’s lips twitched.

Dr Bleecker spread out her hands on the stand, leaning forward. “My research has shown that there are many who use powerless language for manipulation, especially in boardrooms. Individuals can choose to remove themselves from the idea they propose so that the listener will, eventually, take the idea as their own.”

“Do you have any proof that this is the case here?” Jefferson said, acting as the devil’s advocate as he and his chosen witness had surely agreed upon.

Glancing over to him, Dr Bleecker straightened.

“Look at the very first text message,” she said. “‘Sorry I upset you last night,’” she read out loud, her voice toneless and emotionless. “‘But my point still stands, sweetheart. I’m not saying all these things to upset you. Just that… you gotta start thinking about the future, you know?’”

She folded her hands on top of each other. “Here, Mr Weeks puts Mr Sands at the subject and himself as subordinate. ‘I upset you’ – while Mr Weeks put himself as the grammatical subject, the true focus is on Mr Sands’s emotions, and Mr Weeks paints himself as merely the vehicle causing them. ‘I’m not saying all these things to upset you’– once more, the focus is on Mr Sands’s emotions, and everything Mr Weeks says is for his sake. The last line confirms it: though Mr Weeks practically makes it a command that Mr Sands ‘start thinking about the future’, he hedges at the end, turning it less into _his_ idea than Mr Sands’s.”

Hamilton’s hands were trembling as she spoke. Out of the corner of his eyes, Burr could see Weeks shaking his head, over and over. His lips were pressed into a tight, thin line.

“Just because Mr Weeks places Mr Sands as the subject of his conversation doesn’t mean that he’s manipulating him,” Jefferson said, voice mild.

“It does, actually,” Dr Bleecker said. She straightened, and her eyes shifted from the jury to Jefferson. “By removing himself as subject, Mr Weeks shifts the onus of the decision-making process to Mr Sands. Though it might _seem_ that Mr Sands is the powerful one in the relationship, the decision only exists because Mr Weeks brought it up; in Mr Sands’s mind, Mr Weeks is indelibly tied to the very idea of buying an insurance policy.”

She paused, and then shrugged. “To put it in laymen’s terms, Mr Weeks crafts himself as a benevolent parent, looking out for the wellbeing of Mr Sands. Mr Sands’s thought process is coloured by that.”

“That still doesn’t prove that it is manipulation,” Jefferson pointed out. “Manipulation implies intent.”

“Well,” Dr Bleecker said, straightening up and facing the jury again. “The idea itself is that of buying an insurance policy, with Mr Weeks as a payee – which he phrased as a joke, once more proving my point. Mr Weeks might phrase his idea as being for Mr Sands’s advantage, but the true beneficiary is Mr Weeks, especially given the testimonies of the witnesses who came before me. That is the intent you’re looking for, Mr Jefferson. Within the context.”

Hamilton had bitten through his lip. Burr dug into his pocket for a tissue, and handed it over to the other man without looking at him. Hamilton looked up, and his eyes were wide and dark. He looked as if he couldn’t possibly wait until tonight.

Aaron leaned over, and said, voice too low for anyone else to hear, “Sit up straight. And do it slowly, boy. Don’t give yourself away.”

He heard Hamilton’s breathing hitch, the barest wisp of a sound. As he pulled himself backwards, Hamilton’s spine straightened. His eyes stayed fixed on the table; he didn’t turn to look at Aaron. 

“Hands on your thighs,” he murmured into Hamilton’s ear. His eyes darted over to Dr Bleecker and Jefferson, hopefully giving everyone the idea that he was saying something to Hamilton that was directly related to what was going on. “Palms up.”

Slowly, Hamilton turned his hands upwards. There were streaks of ink on his fingertips, faded and old. Most likely from last night or this morning. Aaron didn’t touch him.

“Curl your fingers,” he continued. “Twenty degrees. No more, no less, boy.” Hamilton drew his lip into his mouth. “Face still. Don’t close your eyes.”

Brown eyes flew open again. Hamilton’s shoulders tensed, and then relaxed. He exhaled, long and slow. There was a weight resting on Aaron’s shoulders; another pair of eyes. He ignored them.

“Now turn towards me,” he said. When Hamilton obeyed, he gave a small nod. “Move your mouth. Go through numbers in Spanish, but don’t make a sound.” Hamilton obeyed that, too. His movements even looked natural, with barely any hint of stiltedness.

Aaron’s eyes darted towards Dr Bleecker and Jefferson again. They had now moved towards another series of text messages to reiterate the former’s argument so as to give the jury more information. “Switch to French,” he told Hamilton, nodding without looking at the man.

He could practically feel Hamilton’s lips forming words against his ear; could feel _une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq…_ He was being very, very good; much better than Aaron expected him to be. 

Though desperation could drive a man to many things, such obedience required a reward. Aaron slipped his hand underneath the desk, resting his fingers over Hamilton’s wrist. He felt the pulse jump, but Hamilton’s lips didn’t stammer at _quatorze._ Very, very good. Aaron turned his eyes away from Jefferson, face turned towards the jury while his eyes fixed on Hamilton.

There was still a slight hint of panic in those dark eyes. Aaron smiled to himself.

His nail drove into Hamilton’s wrist, right between the fragile bones. Hamilton tripped over _vingt-huit_ , and Aaron dragged his nail downwards, leaving a streak of red on the pale flesh. Those stained fingers twitched, but quickly returned to their original position.

Aaron let go. He felt more than heard Hamilton suck in a breath. The tension that left the other man’s body was practically a shockwave through the room. 

Leaning in, Aaron turned. He caught Madison’s gaze just as he whispered, “Good boy,” into Hamilton’s ear.

There was nearly an audible _crack_ when tension snapped within Hamilton. Aaron squeezed a shoulder, using that as an excuse to hold Hamilton up so he didn’t give the game away by sagging into his seat. It took Hamilton only a couple of seconds before he straightened again.

“Stay like that,” he told Hamilton, and pulled away. He rested his arms on the table.

Madison wasn’t so crass as to raise an eyebrow: his eyes did all of the asking for him. Aaron smiled, showing a hint of teeth at the corner of his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his gaze towards Jefferson.

Still standing with his hands tucked behind his back, his shoulders squarer and his body more tranquil than Aaron had ever seen it.  
_  
_ When he turned his eyes to Madison, the other man was staring straight ahead again. That was something interesting, too.

“The prosecution has no more questions,” Jefferson said. 

Aaron put a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. He squeezed as he stood up, an answer enough to the question writ all over Hamilton’s face. Stepping out from behind the defence’s desk, he made sure to deliberately avoid Jefferson as he returned to the prosecution side of the courtroom.

If Madison had gone as far as to control Jefferson’s very posture in public, Aaron wasn’t going to test his possessiveness. Or would ‘obsession’ be better as a descriptor?

“Dr Bleecker,” he greeted when he was standing in front of her, a respectable distance away. “Would you say that there is much controversy within the field of sociolinguistics with regards to the interpretation of speech?”

Blue eyes narrowed; Aaron kept his smile on, and waited.

“Only as far as there is controversy within any field of the humanities,” Dr Bleecker said, voice calm. Her hands rested on the podium of the witness stand. 

“That is not an answer, doctor,” he murmured. “I shall rephrase my question: is your research regarding the use of powerless language as a tool for manipulation agreed upon by the experts in your field?”

She hesitated, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “There are people who disagree, of course,” she said. “But that’s the norm when it comes to any theories.”

“Are there more people who agree or disagree?” Aaron persisted.

“I’ve never taken a survey,” she said dryly.

“A guess will do just as well,” he said, and deliberately flicked her eyes towards her right hand – the hand she used to swear that she would not lie.

Shrugging, she said, “I would say that thirty or forty percent of those who have publicly engaged with my research disagree with my conclusions.”

“Publicly engaged?” 

“There are many linguists with many different specialties, not to mention their students, both graduate and undergraduate,” she said, voice even dryer than before. “I have no way of knowing what they think. I know only those who have written articles in response to mine.”

That was more than good enough: Aaron could already see shadows of doubt crossing the jurors’ faces. No matter how much evidence given, all of it fell apart when the theory and methodology themselves could not hold up to scrutiny. Especially when the pool of people who agreed was so small.

“Will you say, then, that controversy within your field, and also with regards to your research, leads to the probable conclusion that any form of analysis of speech is only an interpretation?”

This was the problem with circumstantial evidence. Fortunately, Aaron had an easier job than Jefferson: he didn’t have to build; only to break.

“Sure,” Dr Bleecker said, shrugging again. “But there are justifiable and unjustifiable interpretations, and my research justifies my analysis.”

“Perhaps,” Aaron said, inclining his head. He kept his smile on. “Given your research focus, however, is it possible that you’re biased in terms of your interpretation of the text messages? That you’re only seeing what you want to see?”

“Objection,” Jefferson said, right on cue. “The defence is leading the witness.”

Aaron turned towards Franklin. The man was frowning at him from behind his old-fashioned glasses. Silence stretched out in the courtroom; by now, Aaron knew better than to assume anything from Franklin’s silence.

“Sustained,” the judge said. “Rephrase your question, Counsellor Burr.”

Nodding towards the man, he turned back to Dr. Bleecker. “How much of your prior analysis of the text messages can be rooted in universally agreed-upon theories within your field?” When she didn’t answer immediately, Aaron smiled.

“How many theories within your field can be said to be universally agreed upon?”

For the first time since she stood as witness, Dr Bleecker faltered. “That is,” she started. “I…”

Tilting his head to the side, Aaron waited.

“You are attempting to hold sociolinguistics to the level of the hard sciences,” Dr Bleecker said brusquely. “That’s not how it works.”

“Then how does it?” Aaron asked. “If, as you said, the intent – the most important part of manipulation, of the crime Mr Jefferson is attempting to prove Mr Weeks to be guilty of – relies upon the context, then the interpretation of the context is most important. Interpretation and its validity is paramount. If there is no way to universalise it, Dr Bleecker…”

His smile widened. “It cannot hold up in the court of law.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Jefferson jerk forward. Just very slightly, as if there was a tug on the invisible collar and leash on his neck. Madison’s eyes immediately moved from Aaron back to him.

“Veracity of a field must be ascertained before its methods could be used in the courts, doctor,” he murmured. “Can your field be verified according to legal standards?”

“Objection,” Jefferson said again. “The defence is arguing the law.”

Franklin waved him down. “Overruled. Dr Bleecker, answer Counsellor Burr’s question.”

The woman didn’t speak for long moments. The jury began to murmur amongst themselves, and so did some members of the audience.

Finally, she sighed, looking up into Aaron’s eyes.

“No,” she said. “Not by legal standards.”

Aaron nodded. He stepped away from her, and turned to face Franklin.

“The defence has no more questions, Your Honour,” he said, and went back to his seat.

Hamilton was still sitting there with his hands palm-up on his thighs. He was breathing regularly, and his facial expression didn’t look unnatural. Aaron sat down beside him and waited for Franklin to dismiss the court now that the last testimony of the day was done. 

As people began to shuffle out, he checked his watch: it was still four in the afternoon. He placed a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, and eased it.

“Red,” he murmured into the other man’s ear.

There was one more moment of stillness, and then Hamilton slumped backwards on his chair. He rubbed his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking. Aaron looked away from him to start packing up the papers strewn all over the wooden desk.

“You know, I’ve been thinking…” Hamilton started. He licked his lips. “You’re really a better lawyer than me. Succinct, persuasive.”

Aaron stifled the warmth in his chest before it could even begin to grow. He pasted a smile on his face.

“Go home and take a shower,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Eat something. I’ll see you at six.”

Then, before Hamilton could reply, he stood up. He caught Madison’s eye – from where the man was standing next to his sub, fingers curled over Jefferson’s elbow tight enough to whiten the knuckles – and nodded. His smile widened.

He left the room.

***  
_  
April 5, Tuesday_

“I should have known that Burr would play that particular card,” Madison said once he slipped into the passenger seat of Thomas’s Porsche.

“Doesn’t matter,” Thomas said. He inserted the key into the ignition, turning it. When the screen flashed, he pressed his hand onto it, letting it scan his fingerprints. “The seeds have been planted, and Bleecker’s testimony wasn’t as important as the other three’s anyway.”

“Maybe so,” Madison said. “But I still don’t like it. Burr’s not behaving like usual.”

Nothing about this case was letting anyone act like they would. It was like a keg of gunpowder with a lit fuse thrown into the world itself, destroying everything it touched and sending everything in the periphery into disarray. Thomas put his hands on the steering wheel. He tipped his head back, and stared up at the ceiling of the car.

Even that looked strange now, the leather distorted. Like it shouldn’t be something of his.

“Thomas,” Madison said. When Thomas turned the other man took his hand, folding it over his thumb. He raised it and brushed his lips over the knuckles.

“Don’t worry too much,” he said. “The case will be fine.”

“That’s not…” Thomas closed his eyes. Last Thursday, he’d thought he had everything figured out. On Saturday… 

He breathed out through his teeth, and looked out of the window. The car’s dashboard lights were blinking, urging him to reverse out of the parking spot. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His body felt like a marionette with half of the threads cut, holding onto its shape on sheer willpower that was fast running out.

Long, slightly cold fingers curled around Thomas’s bare neck, slipping into his hair. Thomas squeezed his eyes tighter as Madison’s lips pressed against his. Instinctively, he opened his mouth, exhale juddering out of his lungs as Madison’s tongue mapped his teeth and palate all over again.

It wasn’t enough. Everything was still a mess. Madison’s hands slipped down to Thomas’s arms, pulling him in until Thomas was falling across the gear shift, practically dropping into the other man’s lap as Madison continued to plunder his mouth.

 _Taking_. That was what Madison was doing. Claiming, taking, possessing, as if every inch of Thomas’s skin and body was his. As if the breaths that Thomas drew should only be from Madison’s lungs.

When they pulled apart, Thomas was shaking. He leaned forward, hand on Madison’s broad shoulder, face pressed into his chest. “Not the case,” he said, voice barely more than a rasp. “It’s the case and it’s not the case and James, James, I…”

“Shh,” Madison hushed him, thumb tracing Thomas’s mouth even as he pressed a kiss onto his curls. “Shh. Follow my breathing, alright? Just follow how I breathe.”

Once, it had been Thomas who did that. Whenever Madison had one of his asthma attacks, Thomas would breathe steadily, and ask Madison to follow it. Look how the tables turned; look how _easy_ it was for Thomas to focus on the rise and fall of Madison’s chest, the steady beating of his heart under his ear that was swiftly becoming the very foundation and shape of his world.

Slowly, he leaned back, flopping back onto the driver’s seat. Madison’s fingers traced over the side of his jaw, scraping lightly over the bruise hidden by his beard. Thomas shivered, tilting towards the touch, lips mouthing Madison’s palm and wrist and everything he could reach.

“We have to go back to my office first,” he said quietly. “I have to pick up some things before we head back.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Madison murmured. “You need a break, Thomas.”

“No,” Thomas said. “I can’t.”

If he took a break later, when Madison was asleep, he would see again the messy pieces of his world. And he knew that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep when Madison did. He hadn’t been able to do that for three days. Ever since…

He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste metal. Blood swept over his tongue, and he swallowed. He set his hands on the steering wheel, and pulled out of the lot. He waited for Madison to tell him to head straight back home; command him to do his bidding.

But the words didn’t come. There was only Madison’s gaze, steady on him. Thomas gripped the steering wheel tighter, bones pressing against leather-covered steel.

They reached One Hogan Place in three minutes: Pearl Street was two streets down; it took longer to get out of the carpark than it did to drive down the street. They could have walked, but Thomas always preferred to take the car. 

Madison still didn’t say a word as they headed through the door. That should be normal; they usually didn’t need to speak. But the taste of Madison’s mouth was still on Thomas’s tongue, engraved there, fixed despite the blood, and there was a knot in Thomas’s chest.

The receptionist looked up when she saw them. Thomas always meant to remember her name, but never did; he simply nodded to her. 

“Mr Jefferson,” she said. Then she hesitated, and looked to Madison. “Judge Madison.”

“What is it?” Thomas said. He always spoke this way to her, but now there was a voice in his head that said he was being far too brusque.

She didn’t seem to notice anything wrong, however. “There’s someone waiting for you,” she said. When Thomas didn’t speak, waiting expectantly for more information, she bit her lip. “I told him that you had a court day today, and you’re probably not coming back. But he insisted on waiting.”

“Who is he?” Thomas asked.

“He gave his name as…” she hesitated. “He said his name was Hemings. He didn’t give his first name.”

Thomas’s breath stopped in his throat. In the back of his eyes, he saw: pillars, demarcating lines, all coming crashing down.

“I see,” he said, managing to unstick his tongue. “Well, if he’s still there, I’ll see him.”

Madison was looking at him, but Thomas ignored his gaze. He headed into the building, taking the elevator. The silence was thick in the small space, Madison’s words hovering around them like smoke, but Thomas stared at the ground and refused to speak. Pillars falling down but if he refused to acknowledge them, maybe they could rebuild themselves.

Hemings was there, arms crossed and leaning against the wall right beside Thomas’s office. He was wearing a suit that couldn’t cost more than a couple hundred of dollars, well-tailored nonetheless. His skin was a shade darker than Sally’s, than Martha’s, but the eyes…

The eyes were Sally’s. They were Martha’s. Thomas had met him before, but he had never realised that until now. He swallowed, and forced himself to not look away.

“You must be Mr Hemings,” he said. His hand twitched by his side, and it took all of his willpower to not reach out and grab onto Madison’s arm, or shoulder, or anywhere to steady himself. 

“Yes,” Hemings said. There was a hint of Virginia in his voice, the accent smelling like autumn rot in the enclosed hallway.

He pushed himself away from the wall, back immediately ramrod-straight. He walked towards Thomas, and held out his hand. Thomas shook it. The skin of the palm was smooth; the grip wasn’t too tight.

“There are a few things that I’d like to discuss with you,” Hemings said. He smiled. “Will you please spare me a little of your time.”

 _Polite_. They were both polite. Even when she was shouting accusations at him, Sally had called him _Mr Jefferson_ , never dropping the honorific. Now here Hemings was, saying _please_ , and the word crawled into Thomas’s body and sent spikes into his spine.

“Sure,” he said. He didn’t look at Madison, instead heading towards his office door and unlocking it with his thumbprint.

Behind him, he heard: “It was quite something to hear that a Virginian managed to become a District Court Judge all the way up north,” Hemings was saying.

“What’s your first name?” Madison asked. His voice was soft, calm, and revealed absolutely nothing.

“James,” Hemings said. “It’ll be easier for both of you to just call me ‘Hemings’, I think.”

When Sally had introduced him to Thomas nearly a year ago, she’d said: _this is my brother Jimmy_. 

“Of course,” Madison said. They stepped into Thomas’s office together, their separate footsteps forming a cacophony that made Thomas’s head start to pound. He took a deep breath and boxed up the pain.

If he ignored the collapsing pillars, maybe they would build themselves up again. He walked behind his desk and sat down on it. 

“Thomas,” Madison said. His dark eyes were unreadable when Thomas looked up at him. “I can leave.”

“No, please stay, Judge Madison,” Hemings said. There was a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I think what I have to say will be of interest to you.”

Clearing his throat, Thomas shook his head. “Stay,” he said, and left his eyes to voice _please_ for him. 

After a moment, Madison nodded. He took the second chair from across the desk and pulled it over to the side, sitting down there. His hands folded together on top of the wood, and his eyes rested on them both. Like a judge presiding over the case.

“So,” Thomas said, letting out a heavy exhale with the word. He turned towards Hemings. “What have you come here to say?”

Hemings had said ‘discuss’, but Thomas knew what he really meant. He was mildly surprised that Hemings hadn’t started shouting at the doorway. But then again, he must be aware that his sister’s reputation was at stake as well. Regardless of the fact that no one of the public knew or cared about her.

“I’m here to talk about the deal that you made with my sister Sally,” Hemings started. He crossed his legs, leaning back against his chair. His hands rested on top of his upraised knee. “I’d like to ask what you think you were doing.”

He paused. His smile widened, baring teeth. “Pardon me, I meant to say: what the _fuck_ you think you were doing.”

The Virginian accent bled out in the curse, replaced with New York sharpness. Razors amidst too-sweet autumn apples. Thomas’s hand clenched on the edge of the table.

“You’re assuming that I know what your sister told you,” he said, voice calm. “I don’t.”

“She said plenty,” Hemings told him. He cocked his head to the side. “And I’m far more inclined to take her word over yours.”

“Because she’s your sister,” Thomas said.

“No,” Hemings said. His smile widened even further, turning grotesque and terrible, matching the wild light in his eyes. “Because I know Sally, and she’s not a liar. She’s not selfish.” His head cocked to the side. “Unlike you.”

“Did she tell you that she agreed to the deal we made?” Thomas asked. His body leaned forward despite himself, and he caught those wild eyes with his own. “Did she tell you that _she_ came to _me_? Did you tell you what she _did_ to me?”

Hemings stilled. Thomas barely had a few moments to feel the rising triumph before those large hands slammed on the desk. It sent a few of Thomas’s papers flying upwards; his laptop shuddered in its place; a few paperweights fell over.

Removing his hands, Hemings continued to smile. “When she came to you, she was eighteen,” he said in the same calm voice as before. As if he hadn’t slammed the table so hard that the sound was still reverberating around the room. “Terribly young, wouldn’t you say? Barely out of high school. How old were you, Mr Jefferson?”

His head cocked to the side. “As I recall, you were thirty-four.”

“That’s a reductive argument you’re using,” Thomas said. He slipped his hands beneath his desk so he could clench them together without giving Hemings more vulnerability to twist into. “Just because she was young didn’t mean that she was faultless. In fact, she was a legal adult; at the perfect age to give consent.”

“Ah,” Hemings said. His shoulders shuddered, and he shook his head. “I’ve never heard that particular argument from his lips before, but I can see why the bastard would agree to let you marry his darling, precious Martha.”

He said the name like Sally had, that night: spat out, like a curse. As if he was hoping that speaking her name would call down lightning to strike her dead. Joke’s on him, then: Martha was already dead.

“Don’t you dare talk about her,” Thomas said. His voice trembled even in his own ears.

“I think I have the perfect right to do so,” Hemings said. “Not only was she my sister – and yes, she _was_ my sister, no matter how much our dear Father tried to pretend that he only had one child – but…” He leaned forward, shoving himself into Thomas’s space. “You had _my sister_ pretend to be her while you were _raping_ her.”

“That was,” Thomas said, every word pushed out through his recalcitrant jaw, “part of the deal Sally agreed to.”

Hemings’s hands slammed down on the desk again. Another thunder clap. He moved almost faster than Thomas could see, walking around the desk. He reached out and grabbed Thomas by the collar with both hands, lifting him to his feet. Then off his feet. Fingers twisted at his tie, tight enough to choke. Pressed against the bruises Madison had left, pushing them down against Thomas’s bones.

Thomas couldn’t fight back. All he remembered, suddenly: a darker and danker place; loud incoherent music pouring in his ears; two men, surrounding him; filth on his knees. The sound of a belt clinking. Words like snakes hissing.

“This is how it feels like,” Hemings was saying, his voice barely audible through the roar in Thomas’s ears. “The ground no longer beneath your feet. Utterly in the mercy of someone else to even breathe. Helpless and desperate and terrified. That’s what you made Sally feel like.”

He was in his office and he was in the alley. It was April and it was March. His head spun. Days blurred together, space no longer had any meaning. He couldn’t breathe.

Those hands were no longer on Thomas’s throat. He fell out of his chair onto his knees, choking. Hemings’s legs in front of him. Another pair.

“Enough.” Madison’s voice. “That’s enough, Mr Hemings. You’ve made your point.”

“How can…” Hemings stuttered. His feet drew backwards, and Thomas braced himself for the kick but Madison was standing in front of him. “How can you still defend him after all he’s _done_?”

“Your world revolves around your sister, Mr Hemings,” Madison said. “Maybe even more. Maybe your family, as a whole.” Thomas heard Hemings’s sharp intake of breath. “But my world is different. Enough. You’ve said enough.”

What did Madison _mean_?

Stench of the alley in his nose. Rushing footsteps. Bile at the back of his throat. Thomas retched, pressing his hand to his mouth. His forehead hit the carpet of his office. He dragged in a breath but there was only sour sweat and musk. Familiar, almost. 

Broad thighs around his head. A hand over his jaw. A hand on his throat. Soothing, soothing. Calming. A cock in his mouth, sliding down, and he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe he _couldn’t breathe_ —

Arms wrapped around his chest. Thomas struggled away instinctively, immediately. His head smacked hard against the side of his desk. Black spots in his eyes, pain in every single one of them. He clawed at his throat. A nail caught his shoulder, right over one of the marks of Madison’s teeth.

Madison’s chest behind him. His large hand over Thomas’s cock. A restaurant bathroom. He forgot to ask permission to speak French. Permission, pillars, they were all the same and _my world is different_ —

Metal between his teeth. A hand on his neck. Chemicals on his tongue. “Deep breath in,” Madison’s voice. _Why are you asking me this?_ Madison’s voice. Thomas dragged in a breath and there was still salt on his tongue, but Madison’s inhaler forced open his throat.

 _Consent is irrelevant in this case_ , stop, stop, stop, _because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed,_ stop, goddammit, just stop, _that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot hold up in this court._ Stop, please stop.  
_  
_ Hemings’s voice, like an animal’s growl: _Helpless and desperate and terrified_.

“STOP!”

Thomas fell forward, and crashed his teeth against the carpet. It tasted better than salt and musk. His breathing was loud in the room. Madison at the edge of his vision, hovering.

No. No. Falling pillars and if he ignored them, they could rebuild themselves again. They had to. They had to. He had nothing left. 

The ground beneath his body returned. Slowly, fighting with him for every inch, but it came back. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. He pushed himself upwards. His arms trembled.

“May I touch you?” Madison asked. His voice was so quiet. Thomas nodded.

One arm beneath both of his own, and then another beneath his knees. A memory prodded at the edge of his mind; Thomas ignored it. He laid his head against Madison’s chest. His eyes hurt but his cheeks were dry. Madison put him on the couch. He pulled away but Thomas caught his wrist, tugging him back.

“Hold me,” he whispered. “Please, James.”

Cushion sinking down. Arm around his chest. Thomas gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t tremble.

“Alright,” Madison said.

*  
_  
_ James slipped the inhaler into his pocket. He wrapped his arm around Thomas’s chest again, lifting him up so he could slip onto the couch behind him. When he let go, Thomas dropped back, body like stone, like wood. Madison tangled their fingers together, and squeezed. Thomas didn’t squeeze back.

He’d sent Jimmy Hemings out down the hallway. He didn’t care, at the moment, whether the man was still lingering at the door, or if he had headed back home to his sister or whoever was waiting for him. His fingertips stroked through Thomas’s hair, and he hid a laugh within the curls. 

Here was his world, bracketed in his arms. He kissed Thomas’s temple, and listened to him breathe. He waited.

“She came to me over a year ago,” Thomas started. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. Tremulous like it hadn’t been barely an hour ago, back in the courthouse. As if Hemings’s visit had ripped something out of him.

“You don’t have to tell me,” James said.

“It was in this office,” Thomas said. He didn’t open his eyes; didn’t seem to have heard what James said. “She asked me for help. I didn’t want to give it to her.” There were no other reason than that. Thomas never needed more reason to justify his actions. “So she turned to leave, and…” His shoulders shook.

Dark eyes opened. Long lashes swept over high cheekbones. James traced the curve of one with his finger. Thomas Jefferson was the most stunning human being that James had ever encountered. And he was here, right in James’s arms, looking up at him with those eyes like James mattered more to him than the world; like James was his world.

He would do _anything_ to hold onto that. 

“Do you know what she looks like?” Thomas asked. His voice trembled and Madison felt the first cracks in his heart forming. “Sally, I mean. Have you ever met her?”

“Yeah,” James said. Sometimes Thomas brought her along to the fundraisers he was invited to. The moment he saw Sally he knew exactly what drew Thomas to her. He’d suspected, too, what was happening between them. That had never mattered to him.

Until now, when it did. Wasn’t it Newton’s Third Law that stated that every action had an equal and opposite reaction?

“She was standing right there,” Thomas continued. He pointed towards a spot before the desk. “The sun was shining in through the window. Her profile looked… she looked…” He swallowed, shaking his head. “I said, ‘Sally, turn this way.’ She did. I always will remember how it felt like.”

His eyes closed. He pressed his face into James’s arm, and murmured, “It was just like Martha was alive again.”

James remembered Martha’s funeral. Just two week before that, he’d been at Monticello, and she’d been hosting. He’d sat in the parlour of the house and listened to Thomas on the violin while Martha had sang and played the piano. She had been alive, eyes bright, and one night…

One night, Thomas had called him. Shouting, incoherent, eloquence entirely gone. When James had taken the drive down from his own family’s estate, he had had to turn around immediately to follow the ambulance to the hospital. Martha beneath a sheet, completely still like she never had been in life. Thomas in a hospital bed, lips blue, as if the warmth had gone out of him, too.

For the next week, Thomas had talked about her like she was still there. James had forced him to write his eulogy down. He’d edited it; changed all of the tenses to the past. He’d told Thomas, _Just read from it, you don’t have to think._ Thomas hadn’t cried. He had moved out of the main house after the funeral, and lived in the cottage at the edge of the estate. The one where Martha had scrawled _Honeymoon Lodge,_ right on the wall, in her large, blockish handwriting.

He’d stayed there a single night. The morning after the funeral, James had gone down to Monticello. He had picked Thomas up, and stowed him into the car. Thomas had spent the next three weeks catatonic in James’s guestroom, barely eating, staring into space. When his dead eyes turned back to the living world again, he had said: _I don’t want to stay here_. 

And James had said: _I’ll come with you, no matter where you go_. He’d known, then, that he meant it.

Five years, now. Nearly six. Sometimes, James wondered if Thomas still forgot that Martha was dead.

This was one of those times. Thomas was staring into space- no, right at the spot he’d pointed to. As if he believed that, if he looked hard enough, Martha would appear again.

Sally had been eighteen. James remembered being that age. Was she old before her time, too?

It didn’t matter.

He tilted Thomas’s face towards him with one hand. He kissed him again, soft and sweet, a steady pressure. When Thomas’s mouth opened beneath his, he breathed in the inhale and locked the warmth of it deep in his lungs. It had become a habit.

“Tell me what happened between the two of you,” he murmured. “Not the deal. But what she did.”

Thomas closed his eyes. “She…” he stopped. He licked his lips. “I don’t know the word for it. I don’t know if there is a word for it. I had a word, but it doesn’t seem to fit now, and I don’t know what fits.”

“Doesn’t matter,” James told him, stroking through those rich curls. “Describe it to me.”

“She did what you did,” Thomas said. James’s spine went rigid. “But she didn’t ask like you did. She didn’t even tell me what it was that she was doing.”

The first time: Thomas’s mouth around James’s fingers, eager to please, and knowing how. All of the other times: so obedient, so pliant. James had thought it was Martha – it would fit from what he saw of the two of them; Martha had always had Thomas wrapped around her little finger. But now he knew he had been wrong.

_What if I pay you?_

Hovering around them: the puzzle piece he had been missing all this while.

James closed his eyes. He turned his head. “I see,” he said.

“When I gave her the deal, I told her exactly what was going to happen,” Thomas said. “She knew. I wasn’t lying. She took it. She took it and she…” His shoulders shook. “I asked her to come to the house on Saturday. I knew you said I wasn’t supposed to go out, so I asked her to come, because I wanted… She’s the reason why I’m like this.”

Fingers stroking down Thomas’s arms, James nodded.

“But she called me a rapist instead,” Thomas said. There was a plaintive note in his voice, and the last word was nearly garbled enough to be incoherent. “She called me that and I… I don’t know, I…”

He shuddered. James didn’t speak; he considered his next words carefully. He took in, too, the unpleasant coiling in his spine.

Thomas tipped his head back. His eyes were still closed. “My opening argument,” he said. “What I said. Consent is irrelevant…” He trailed off, and shook his head. He trembled again.

Silently, James finished for him: _because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot hold up in this court._ Thomas’s words, built around the ideas James gave to him.

Words that didn’t describe only Weeks and Sands. James always knew. The chill moved up his back, spread its fingers into his veins. Impossible to ignore, now, unlike when he’d first looked through Thomas’s finalised draft.

Turning his head, he kissed Thomas’s temple. “You don’t have to think about it,” he said quietly. “Do you remember, weeks back, when you asked me to fix it for you?”

“Yeah,” Thomas nodded. He opened his eyes, and looked like James was his entire world.

James kissed him again. His hand splayed on Thomas’s chest, right above his heart. The chain and wedding ring that had used to rest there were long gone, kept away in one of the drawers in James’s room in Thomas’s house; the one he never used, now. He curled his fingers inward, grasping.

“I fixed that for you,” he said. “And I’ll fix this too.” 

Thomas sighed. He leaned up and kissed James of his own accord; another one of those little gifts he kept handing over. “Thank you,” he breathed into James’s mouth.

Five years ago, James had said: _I’ll come with you, wherever you go._

He didn’t like to lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing linguistics analysis on what I wrote myself is a fucking head-trip. Anyway, [Ann Eliza Bleecker](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ann_Eliza_Bleecker) is a real historical figure. ‘Powerless language’ as a theory also exists. The whole controversy around whether sociolinguistics can be a legitimate field of study also exists. Also, I’m playing a game when writing epics called: “How many things might seem one-off but end up as a piece of a much bigger puzzle later?” Gotta catch ‘em all, guys.
> 
> Jefferson and Sally’s meeting in his office is 100% stolen from Sandra Seaton’s [_From the Diary of Sally Hemings._](http://quod.lib.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?cc=mqr;c=mqr;c=mqrarchive;idno=act2080.0040.402;view=text;rgn=main;xc=1;g=mqrg) These lines particularly:
> 
> I was carrying a tray when he called me. _Sally turn this way. Now hold your face to the light_. A little over. Master Jefferson, he was whiter than a sheet. Whiter than I ever was. He cupped my face in his hands and whispered her name.

> 
> Madison’s _obsessiveness_ over Jefferson comes from one line that Oak once said about the way he plays him: the guy has a focus like a laser. He focuses on something and doesn’t let go. Here, his focus is on Jefferson, and I take it to the fullest extreme that can possibly go. He basically spends this fic with blinkers on.
> 
> (To [junes_discothesque](http://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque): yes, that scene with Burr and Hamilton in the courtroom is a homage to that scene in _you’re such a violent high_ that is permanently stuck in my brain. I hope you like it.)


	19. make the world safe and sound for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The things you do to protect the ones you love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Second scene: depiction of victim-blaming, hints of a very controlling, borderline abusive relationship. Third scene: depictions of the aftermath of whipping, aftercare, kink negotiation that’s done under false pretences. Fourth scene: depictions of deliberate messing around with consent issues, panic attack, a person realising that they’re actually a piece of shit, and a _lot_ of discussion of rape.

_April 6, Wednesday_  
  
The restaurant was one of the smaller ones in the theatre district; closer to Fifty-Fifth Street than Fortieth, with a small shopfront and a much larger interior. Very few Broadway theatregoers ever managed to find it, which meant that lunch hour on a Wednesday still found the place rather empty.

Lafayette strode through the door in a polo shirt, jeans, and bright pink sneakers with glitter dotted along the heel. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, and the lingering scent of clove smoke only seemed to add to his overall elegance and class. Every inch of him screamed old European nobility with neon letters, terribly incongruous to the city.

He slid into the booth seat opposite Aaron with all of the ease of a New Yorker used to such places.

“This is a little out of the way for you, isn’t it?” he asked.

Aaron picked up the cup of coffee he’d ordered when he first realised that Lafayette hadn’t arrived. He shrugged – it was true enough, but Washington, unlike Montgomery, didn’t keep a close check on the time he spent on lunch. Only that he finished his work, and behaved in a way that tickled his fancy.

“It’s convenient enough,” he said. 

Dark eyes peered at him over the menu. Then, abruptly, Lafayette smiled. The leather-bound thing fell onto the polished wooden table, clattering, as he held out his hand. “Long time no see, Burr,” he said. “And I didn’t even greet you properly.”

Though his smile reached his eyes, there was no hint of a French accent in his voice. Aaron twitched his own mouth upwards. “You don’t have to,” he murmured. “We know each other well enough to dispense with such pleasantries.”

Still, he took the hand. Lafayette’s grip hadn’t changed through these years.

They settled back down into silence, looking through their menus. Aaron had already decided what he wanted long ago, so he took the opportunity to watch Lafayette. 

On Monday, Eliza had called him. _Lafayette’s back in New York_ , she had said, as though Aaron didn’t work for Washington and couldn’t already tell from the upward swing of the man’s mood. Her next words had been a surprise, however: _He wants to see you._  
_  
_ Asking for the reason would be useless. So Aaron had only said: _Sure, how about Wednesday?_ When Eliza relayed the message, he wasn’t surprised when Lafayette agreed, and suggested this place. 

They weren’t friends, not even in the loosest sense of the word; they were merely acquaintances, two planets who managed to orbit in the same space, pulled close together by the gravity of others.

“How is little Theo?” Lafayette asked after the waiter retreated with the menus.

Aaron resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. So _this_ was how the game would be played. It was even more despicable when he knew Lafayette meant the question with all sincerity.

“She’s fine.” He folded his hands on top of the table, keeping Lafayette’s gaze evenly. “Behaving as any four-year-old should, really.”

“Have you hired a nanny for her?” Lafayette cocked his head. “Especially with how busy you have been lately.”

“I haven’t been as busy as to warrant such a thing,” Aaron replied. He would never be busy enough to hand over the raising of his only child to a complete stranger. Not when he knew exactly how children could be treated when there was an uncaring adult in charge of them.

The waiter came over with Lafayette’s coffee, the scent of it thick and dark. Aaron waited for him to leave before he tilted his head in the precise same angle as Lafayette had.

“What about yours? All three of them.”

If there was any similarity between them, it was that they were the two men who were married and with children among their group of acquaintances. Though Lafayette had certainly married far younger: while Aaron had the sense to wait until the year after he finished college, Lafayette had arrived in Columbia as a sophomore already wearing his wedding band. 

Lafayette blinked. “Virginie will only be one in September,” he said, dry. “How do you even find out?”

“Sometimes I read the French papers to keep my language skills polished,” Aaron said in the same tone. “Though I’m certain that I’m still later to find out than everyone else.”

There was a pause. Lafayette put down his coffee cup. His eyes didn’t leave Aaron’s face as he leaned back, stretching out his legs until the tips of his shoes were bumping against Aaron’s calf.

“Speaking of everyone else,” Lafayette said. “How is our mutual friend Alexander?”

Aaron didn’t give him the satisfaction of freezing. He simply shrugged, drawing back both legs and straightening up further in his seat. An avoidance of touch; nothing more.

“I told Eliza all that I already know,” he said calmly. “And I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a friend.”

“Oh?” Lafayette blinked. A sharp smirk curved at the corner of his mouth, turning that friendly, open face dangerous. “I think that the relationship you share with him is one that will require friendship, at the very least.”

“Like I told Eliza,” Aaron said, deliberately loosening his jaw, “we aren’t all so lucky to go around with our hearts open.”

“So it’s just a matter of bodies, then?

“A transaction,” Aaron corrected. He ran his finger around the rim of his coffee cup. “Did you name your youngest child after Washington’s home state?”

“Not only his, but Thomas’s as well,” Lafayette said, and there it was: that hint of a French accent in his pronunciation of Jefferson’s name. He tucked away a stray strand of hair that had fallen into his face. “Though I haven’t had the chance to introduce her to either of them yet.”

“Is she too young to make the trip over the Atlantic?” Aaron asked.

“Has your daughter travelled overseas?” Lafayette countered. When Aaron didn’t answer, he shook his head, huffing out a quiet laugh. “But we were talking about Alexander.”

The waiter approached, then. Aaron used the excuse to look away – he should have known that Lafayette wouldn’t be as easily distracted as most parents. He picked up his knife and fork, and started cutting absentmindedly into his chicken.

“Were we?” he asked.

“Well, I was,” Lafayette said. He stabbed a piece of lettuce with his fork, and twirled the silver around his fingers. “I’d change the subject, except…” There was enough deliberation in the pause for Aaron to think of another place, another man; a smaller and more exclusive room, broader shoulders and darker skin.

He busied himself with his food. 

“It doesn’t concern me,” he said once it became clear that Lafayette was going to wait him out. He chewed on a piece of meat and swallowed without tasting it. “Whatever it is that you have done, or wish to do, with Hamilton, it doesn’t concern me.”

Those dark eyes narrowed on him, sharpening even further. Aaron told himself that Lafayette couldn’t _really_ look through him and see the knots that his insides had twisted themselves into. Besides, there were no knots in the first place.

Swallowing, he took another sip of his coffee. “Don’t you find it strange to be here, eating lunch with me, when you have practically named your daughter after my current opponent in court?”

Lafayette’s hand paused in the middle of bringing food into his mouth. His shoulders shook, and he ducked his head down, chuckling.

“Like you said,” he drawled. “‘Current’.”

“Does it make so much of a difference to you?” Aaron knew he was capable of compartmentalising in that way. But Lafayette was Hamilton’s friend, and Hamilton’s habit of barging into no men’s lands and scuffing the lines with his feet was contagious.

“Throughout the years, I have learned that it is useful to keep what concerns me separated into boxes in my head,” Lafayette said, setting his fork back down and looking Aaron straight in the eye. “It is good for organisation; it lets me recall what I need very quickly.”

The danger bled away from his face. The smile remained as it had been before.

“It serves, too, as a good reminder,” Lafayette continued in the same quiet voice. “Boxes require labels, and those labels tell me what is worth taking into account.” He shrugged. “You and Thomas both stand in the courtroom, Burr; it matters very little to me which side you happen to be facing at any time.”

“Convenient,” Aaron said, and ate more of his food.

“Perhaps,” Lafayette acknowledged, inclining his head. “But it serves my purpose well enough.”

Silver fork clinked light against porcelain. Lafayette’s hands rested on the table, one over the other. He leaned forward, dark eyes bright and glittering beneath heavy lashes. Lafayette had always been a beautiful man who had no compunction in using his beauty for his own purposes.

Different, but not different enough. The restaurant’s lights still seemed to dim in front of Aaron’s eyes.

“It is rather curious,” Aaron murmured. “The disparate types of men who are capable of sustaining an entire conversation with metaphors.”

Dark eyes widened. But when Lafayette spoke again, he didn’t seem to have grasped Aaron’s meaning: “My boxes are made of cardboard. Fragility is the price I pay for its porousness.”

“Rigidity of thought is a terrible accusation to levy against a lawyer,” Aaron pointed out.

“But I’m not speaking to you like one would in a courtroom,” Lafayette countered. “I could have met you in your office, but I suggested here instead. A neutral place.”

“The neutrality of a battlefield increases the harm caused by an attack instead of decreasing it,” Aaron said, tone even flatter than before. His fingers twitched on his knife; he stilled them. “Were you afraid that I might raise a fuss that would incur Washington’s wrath towards you if we had this _conversation_ ,” he drew out the word, made it into mockery, “in my office?”

“My family is the one with a history in the military, not yours,” Lafayette said. He put down his utensils, metal clinking against the porcelain of the plate. He leaned even closer; his foot brushed Aaron’s calf again.

“Why do you assume that you are under siege?”

Aaron couldn’t help himself: he barked a laugh, rough on his throat and harsh on his tongue. His legs remained where they were as he leaned back against the cushions of the booth seat. “I’m glad that you are an exception to your family’s tradition,” he said. “Any general who makes assumptions like you courts only death for his soldiers.”

Lafayette spread out his hands. “So correct me,” he challenged. “Prove me wrong.”

Here was the difference between Lafayette and Madison: Lafayette laid his cards out on the table easily, face-down; Madison preferred to keep them close to his chest. Aaron preferred the latter: he always trusted more in his poker face than his gambles.

He smiled, and shook his head. “I’m not letting your strategy succeed.”

That won him a few moments of silence. Then Lafayette said, unpleasantly undeterred, “Too much wood is bad for the head; it forms blinkers. Doesn’t a trial always ask for an impartial jury?”

Aaron snorted. “A juror sees only what he wants to see,” he countered. “The blinkers are necessary to keep them focused.”

Lafayette dragged a hand over his hair. A few curls escaped from his ponytail to fall over the sides of his face. It made him think, oddly enough, about Hamilton. No, not odd at all; not when Hamilton was the subject of the conversation here; the very reason why Aaron was even having it in the first place.

“Or have those blinkers become far too comfortable?” Lafayette asked, voice soft and steady. “Have they kept you from seeing the flames caught upon the edges?”

Stabbing another piece of chicken, Aaron shoved it into his mouth and chewed. The food was good; it tasted like ash. He swallowed. “You would make for a terrible lawyer.”

“This is not a courtroom,” Lafayette retorted immediately. His eyes softened, and he sighed. “And every word you say convinces me further that you believe yourself under siege when there are only friends at your gates.”

Aaron had had enough: with Madison, he received what he wanted in the conversation even as he gave away pieces of himself; but Lafayette gave nothing and sought to take and take and take.

He stood up, uncaring that he’d barely eaten. He took out his money clip. Before he could pull out the notes, Lafayette’s hand caught his wrist. Instinctively, Aaron pulled out of that grasp, practically slapping the man upside the head. Lafayette froze, and there was suddenly a light in his eyes that Aaron disliked even more than the entire meeting put together.

“We could have been friends, if things had been different,” Lafayette said, tone despicably gentle. _In another lifetime_ , Aaron finished for him: a lifetime where he’d accepted Hamilton’s offer of friendship back in college instead of choosing William Paterson’s particular brand of companionship instead.

A smile pasted itself across his face. “I’ve already told you: anything I know about Hamilton, I’ve already told Director Schuyler,” he said. “You’ve wasted your time here, Lafayette.”

“So have you,” Lafayette pointed out. “More than I have. I do not count spending time with a potential friend to be a waste.”

Shaking his head, Aaron stifled the bitter laugh rising from his chest. He pulled out a few notes from the clip, making to leave when Lafayette spoke again.

“Why did you agree to come?”

Sliding the notes under the bowl, Aaron kept his smile on.

“I leave that for you to decide,” Aaron said. “Surely it’s not up to me to deny you the pleasure of assuming the righteousness of your assumptions.”

He dipped his head. “Lafayette,” he said, and turned away.

Lafayette didn’t try to stop him. But Aaron felt the weight of his gaze upon his shoulders even as the restaurant’s doors closed behind him; pinpricks across the skin.

Wars and siege and cards: none of those metaphors were more appropriate than this one. Wars could be won; sieges could be defended against; bets on cards could be controlled. But any attempt to guard against needles would only have them piercing another part of his skin.

The nights were getting warmer with summer’s approach, but his skin felt cold. He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the subway.

That night, he had another meeting with Hamilton. He instigated it.

***  
__  
April 6, Wednesday  
  
There was a man standing outside of Sally’s dorm room. Arms crossed, biceps bulging as if he’d managed to hide tree trunks inside his sleeves. His skin was dark, but his eyes were even darker as he turned them to look at her.

Despite the instinctive reaction to huddle against the wall, Sally straightened herself further. She held her heavy textbooks to her chest, and met that gaze. 

“Judge James Madison,” she greeted softly, not ducking her head even though she knew she should. “What are you doing here?”

“I think,” Madison said, his voice just as quiet but a thousand times stronger and more authoritative, “we should have this conversation inside your room.”

She didn’t want to invite him in. His presence would permeate the entire room like it was taking up the entire hallway; his shadow would colour the walls and floors and mute the sound. Nothing would ever look the same again. She wanted him to leave.

But he wasn’t going to leave. Not when he’d made all of the effort to come here. She knew that without having to ask.

So she only nodded, and dug her key out from her pocket. Madison shifted away from the door to let her open it.

“How did you manage to find me?” she asked softly.

“This is my old alma mater,” Madison said, which was both an answer and not. Sally ducked her head down, pushing open the door. She mouthed Angelica’s advice under her breath again – _think like a lawyer_ – and hoped that it would hold up well enough against a judge.

Madison closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned against it, crossing his arms again, when Sally moved to her desk and put down her books. Her fingers trembled, and she stroked them against the edges of the hardcovers.

“Please, take a seat,” she offered, forcing the words out of his throat 

“Standing is fine,” Madison said. He didn’t move away from the door. “I don’t think I will be staying here for long.”

Sally took another breath. She flattened her hands out on top of her books, reading their titles: Netter’s _Atlas of Human Anatomy_ ; Sattar’s _Pathoma_ ; Essig-Beatty’s _Pocket Manual of OMT_ , which wasn’t part of her allopathic track but which she was reading anyway. The words sank into her mind, reminding her why she was doing this. 

When she turned around to face Madison again, her breathing was even, and her hands were by her side. She tried a smile.

“I think I can guess what you want to say,” she told him, keeping her voice soft. “But none of that will convince me to take back my words.”

Cocking his head, Madison raised an eyebrow. “You seem pretty certain about that,” he said.

“But if you insist on telling me,” she continued, “then I will listen.”

“Alright,” Madison said, still with that same mild tone. He didn’t look very different from the man she’d met at that first fundraiser she’d accompanied Jefferson to, eight or nine months ago. There should be anger, some sort of overt threat at least, but Madison’s entire air was eerily calm, his face revealing nothing. Sally fought to not fidget with her hands.

“How long have you been doing what you did?” Madison asked. When Sally jerked involuntarily, his lips curved up; less of a smile than a show of teeth. “Don’t try to lie or pretend, Miss Hemings.” Her name on his tongue made her shiver, especially the formality. “I’ll know if you do.”

She stared at her hands. She swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, because she wasn’t going to let him win. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.

Never mind that she felt plenty intimidated already.

He took a step forward, the sound of it echoing in the small room. He unfolded his arms, and shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching. Somehow, he looked even more terrifying that way.

“I think you do,” he said, voice still soft, tone still mild. Madison wasn’t a man who needed to raise his voice to show his power. “You wouldn’t look so guilty if you didn’t, Miss Hemings. You wouldn’t look at as if you’ve done something wrong.”

Sally’s nails drove straight into her palm. But those little pinpricks weren’t enough to block the sudden twisting knot in her chest. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, barely stopping herself from breaking skin.

“That wasn’t wrong,” she whispered. She cleared her throat and said, louder, “I was just defending myself.”

“Perhaps,” Madison said, and that was such a surprise that Sally’s head jerked up. He was staring at her with those fathomless dark eyes. “But even self-defence is a chargeable crime, Miss Hemings. That is why manslaughter exists as a felony.”

“He’s not dead,” Sally protested immediately. “I didn’t kill him.”

“You didn’t,” Madison agreed. He took another step forward, and Sally scrambled back onto the desk to keep the distance between him. His foot slapped down hard on the wooden floorboards, but he didn’t stop moving. “But you might as well have. You destroyed something within him, Miss Hemings.”

 _Good_ , she thought immediately, viciousness whipping up her spine and steeling it. _He deserves that_.

“That’s an exaggeration,” she said, hiding her triumph from the eyes of the man who had come all the way here just to defend Thomas Jefferson. “He was still the same the last time I met him. And I didn’t do anything like what you’re implying that last time.”

They were now talking around the topic instead of about it. But if Madison refused to actually name Sally’s deeds, then neither would Sally. The technique worked well enough on Jefferson, so why not this man?

Madison huffed out a breath. If he was any other man, Sally could classify that as a laugh. But he wasn’t, and all she felt was a creeping chill twining around her spine. She swallowed hard.

“There are some things that are difficult to see until long in the aftermath,” Madison said quietly. His eyes darted from her towards her books. “Such as an internal wound that could bleed out and kill.”

Unbidden, a laugh burst out of Sally’s throat. It rang in the room, high-pitched and harsh, echoing even as it faded. Her hand slammed down on top of her textbooks – she wouldn’t let Jefferson and those around him ruin _those_ too – before she shook her head. Madison’s eyes were narrowed, but the fear was very far away now.

“I don’t have that much power of him,” she said, shoulders shaking. “He has all of the power. I have nothing. All I’ve done is some helpless flailing. Like a fly caught in a spider’s trap.”

“Hah,” Madison said. “Does it please you?”

“To be caught?” Sally blinked.

“No,” Madison shook his head. “To think yourself as a helpless victim. Caught in his snares.”

Immediately, the laughter died in her throat, and the fear slammed back into her chest. She jerked backwards as if Madison’s words had actual force, practically stumbling over the legs of her desk chair as she stared, wide-eyed, at the man. Her lips trembled; she pressed them together flat.

When she first met Madison, she dismissed him; he was so quiet and polite, practically respectful in comparison to everyone else she met that night. She was too distracted by the need to behave properly, to exorcise that Virginian accent that still lingered on her tongue, because she was afraid that Jefferson would change his mind at any moment. That he would decide that, no matter what she did, she wasn’t good enough for the money he was supposedly investing in her.

But now… Now, she realised she had made a mistake. If Jefferson was a wolf, then Madison was a panther. A wolf’s grey coat could be seen under the moonlight. A wolf would howl in a dark night, signalling his presence.

“I’m not a victim,” she said. But her voice was so weak, barely a thread floating in the wind. She swallowed, staring down at her hands. Her broken nails had barely grown back; she stopped herself from plucking at them. “I’m not a _victim_ ,” she said again.

Madison’s eyes didn’t change. They were still on her, heavy and dark and waiting. His presence filled the room, choking the air out of her lungs. Her fingers twitched again. 

“A fly caught in a spider’s web can struggle,” she said, exerting all of her will so she didn’t start stuttering. “But all it can do – all _I_ can do – is to loosen a few threads. That’s all. I’m still… I’m still trapped. And what… what I did was because he trapped me in the first place.”

It wasn’t her fault. She’d made her choice, she’d done something wrong, but that didn’t mean it was _her fault_. Angelica had taught her the difference. She held onto the thought of the difference now. It wasn’t her fault.

“You’re more than just a fly, Miss Hemings,” Madison said. Sally hated him in that instant, suddenly and viciously; hated him for the calm in his voice, as if he was pronouncing some sort of judgment. As if he didn’t come here because he had some kind of personal stake in… in whatever this situation was. She hated him for the way he paused, and how his silence permeated the room, prodding at her skin.

“What do you think I am?” she threw out.

“If we follow your metaphor…” Madison paused. “You’re a fly, but the threads you break aren’t just his web. They’re the things holding his very _being_ together.” His smile broadened even further, baring more white, even teeth. “Do you know how much you have ruined him?”

“No, I…” She slammed her hand onto the edge of her desk, pressing the wood deep into the flesh until she could feel it practically touch bone. “He ruined me. _He_ ruined _me_ , Mr Madison.” All those nights she spent at the hands of Doms who weren’t Angelica, asking for pain. All those nights she spent with Angelica, shaking and wordless.

She made Angelica cry because of him.

“I’m not dismissing the harm he did to you,” Madison said, still calm. “I’m sure it must be a great deal, and I would apologise on his behalf if I believed it would mean anything to you.” Sally’s body jerked, an aborted tremor worsening, and she looked down on the floor.

“All I’m saying is that the damage you did to him is just as bad, or even worse. How have you not seen it?”

“Because it’s not _there_!” she cried. But even as the words punched out from her mouth, memories came to her, reshaping themselves to Madison’s words: Jefferson’s wrecking sobs on that last night he’d asked for her; _Martha, Martha, Martha_ like a litany on his lips, more desperate than ever; the way he’d jumped away from her, holding his wedding ring to his chest, a pathetic figure with tears still drying on his cheeks.

She took a deep breath, and tried to dismiss the thoughts. “What I’ve done was in self-defence,” she repeated. “That’s all. You can’t… you can’t blame me for that.”

Madison chuckled. It was a dark sound, utterly mirthless, and Sally clawed at her own thigh as a cold shiver made its way up her spine.

“Unfortunately, the world doesn’t work according to a series of checks and balances,” he said, wry now. He shook his head. “Whatever damage he did to you doesn’t excuse in the slightest what you did to him. It provides a possible justification, but…”

He spread out his hands. “It’s up to the individual to decide whether that’s enough, isn’t it?”

Another laugh escaped her. Sally shook her head. “If you tell the public about this, he’ll have to go through more scrutiny,” she said. Something else she wasn’t sure about; something she didn’t entirely believe in.

“There’s no need to bring strangers to this situation,” Madison said. He crossed his arms again, stepping back so he was leaning against the wall. He cocked his head at her. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“Why are you here?” Aside from pulling the ground from beneath her feet just when she thought she’d found something steady.

“To offer a suggestion,” Madison said.

Of course. Sally sagged against the desk, elbows bending as she fought to not collapse onto the floor. She was so tired: of men like Jefferson and Madison, of deals that asked for pieces of her soul.

“What do you want me to say to him?”

“Nothing,” Madison said. Sally’s eyes flew open, widening. Madison gave her a thin smile, lopsided. “Stay away from him. Anything you want or need, you come to me instead. Don’t go near him.”

Like she was the wicked witch of the story and Jefferson the poor beleaguered princess and Madison his prince to the rescue. Sally had never liked fairytales. She fought down a laugh, but her shoulders shook with it anyway.

“I don’t want to see him either,” she said, tipping her head up so she was meeting Madison’s gaze again. “But what I want from him is something you can’t give me. Something you don’t _have_.”

Madison slowly raised an eyebrow. Sally grinned in response, probably resembling a maniac from the twisted humour of the situation.

“He has my family’s money,” she said softly. “That’s what I want from him.”

“That money isn’t your family’s,” Madison pointed out like she knew he would. “Legally, it belonged to Martha after John Wayles’s death. After Martha’s, it belongs fully to Thomas.”

He said her name like it was nothing to him; like she was an acquaintance who died and he was told of her death years after the fact. But Jefferson’s name… Despite the coolness of his tone, Madison lingered over it. Practically caressed it on his tongue.

Sally stared. She wanted, more than anything, to reach out and grab Madison by the collar. To shake him and ask _how, how, how_ , over and over again. She wanted to open the door and push Madison out, and along with his body the memory of his voice saying Jefferson’s name.

Once, a long time ago, Sally had sat down with her Momma in front of their small television, watching the news. The screen had been showing some kind of funeral, and everyone had been crying. Sally had asked, _Why is it that they keep showing people crying when they’re talking about the dead, Momma_? Momma had stroked her hair and held her close, and said, _People crying over someone means that the person is loved; someone who is loved is human, and these stories are to remind us that everyone who dies is human_.

She hadn’t understood very well, then – there were a lot of things her mother and brothers said when she was young that she didn’t understand until much later – but now she knew. She had been trying so long to keep Jefferson as a shadow in the corner of her mind, a flat silhouette instead of an actual man.

But now… Now she looked into Madison’s eyes, and she knew she would never be able to do it again. All of her hatred for Madison faded away in a flash as well, despite her grasping hands.

 _When someone was loved… when they could love…_

Her hand trembled as she drew it over her hair. “Legally, yeah,” she said, looking away from those dark eyes. “But legal doesn’t mean right.”

“Martha’s inheritance is quite a huge sum,” Madison pointed out, still in that same mild tone. “You don’t need that much money.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to have it,” she said. “Doesn’t mean that he deserves to have it, either.”

When Madison didn’t speak, Sally looked up at him again. His head was turned away from her, eyes fixed upon the window. There was nothing interesting for him to see, there.

“Why don’t you tell me what you really want from me, Mr Madison?” Sally said. She was too tired for fear, too tired for anything other than for this conversation to be over.

Madison’s eyes returned to her. He didn’t speak for long moments. Sally didn’t bother counting the seconds, only holding onto that gaze with her head held high. So what if he could destroy her in just a few seconds if he wanted to? She had dealt with far worse.

“You’re very brave,” Madison said. When Sally jerked, he smiled, and, _Christ_ , this time, it actually reached his eyes. “That’s not a compliment I gave to get you to do what I want, Miss Hemings.”

“It doesn’t answer my question,” she said.

He shook his head, his hands falling to his hips. He looked towards the window again, eyes growing unfocused. Sally wondered what he was really seeing in that moment.

“There’s nothing I want from you other than what I said,” Madison told her, voice low with an odd note in it. Almost like vulnerability. “The cracks you drove into his being have grown, and he has shattered entirely. All I have been trying to do is to put him together. I don’t need anyone to make the situation worse.”

Sally opened her mouth, but Madison held up a hand.

“I’ve checked his financial records,” he said. She gritted her teeth, grinding them together so she wouldn’t gape. How could he _do_ that? Angelica didn’t even have any access to her bank account? That was… It didn’t matter.

“The money he’s wiring now to your account every month, along with the tuition for every semester, are sent automatically,” Madison said. “He made the arrangements a year ago, and they haven’t changed since then. There are no reasons for that to change.”

 _Don’t give him reason to change that,_ Sally heard. She closed her eyes. This was what she had been fighting against: to be given money without having earned it. To be given handouts like… like she was some sort of charity case, helpless and dependent all over again.

“All I ask of you is for you to leave him alone,” Madison continued, his voice echoing hollowly in her ears. There was a significant pause. 

Then he said: “If you find that to be an insult to your pride, think of it as a form of labour. You’re being paid to live your life away.” 

Eyes snapping back open, Sally stared again. Madison looked at her, his eyes dark and terribly knowing. As if his gaze could look right through her and pluck her thoughts right out of her head, weaving them into a tapestry with just a few twitches of his fingers.

Angelica could read her, too. But not like this. Not with just one meeting. Not with such absolute accuracy. Those eyes were like the yellow glow of a panther’s in the midst of a dark forest, and she was caught within their grasp. Caught with the full knowledge that she had no chance of escape right before he pounced and tore out her heart.

Clenching her hands into fists, she asked through a closing throat, “What will happen if I refuse?”

Madison cocked his head to the side. “I don’t think you will refuse,” he said, voice still soft. “I think you’re an intelligent young woman who will recognise that any refusal would be unreasonable.”

She shook her head. But he interrupted her before she could even gather her thoughts enough to speak: “Letting your emotions, whether they be fear or pride, govern your decisions isn’t wise, Miss Hemings.”

“Why…” she licked her lips. “Why shouldn’t I be unwise?”

He smiled; the barest curve of the lips. Terribly small, terribly knowing. “You didn’t come this far by being unwise,” he said. It sounded like a statement.

It was true. Like everything he’d said in the past fifteen minutes.

Sally pushed herself up onto the desk again, sitting on it properly this time. She grabbed one of her textbooks and hugged the huge volume against her chest, uncaring about how much vulnerability she was showing. If he could see through her even when she was trying, then there wasn’t really a point.

Staring down at her shoes, she swung her feet back and forth. She took a deep breath, and nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll take the money. I won’t go near him.”

His footsteps echoed in the room. He stopped right in front of her, and held out a small white card. She took it. The paper felt smooth and thick to the touch, and Madison’s name was printed on it in an elegant font. Underneath the lettering for his title – Federal District Judge – he had written a cell number in a small, cramped hand.

“If he calls you, you call me immediately,” Madison said. “Or text. Whichever you prefer. I’ll divert him.”

“Won’t he know what is going on, then?” Sally asked, more to her knees than to him.

“I’ll divert him,” Madison repeated. He stepped back.

When Sally looked up, she noticed his arms again; the first thing she’d noted about him. And she almost laughed, because, honestly, she was terribly naïve. Anyone who looked at him and took his arms to be a bigger threat than his eyes had no idea what danger truly was.

“Please leave,” she whispered.

“You won’t see me again,” Madison said. As Sally watched, he headed to the door. He dipped his head to her before he left. The room door closed without a sound. No one could ever accuse James Madison of being impolite, she thought, half-hysterical.

She waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps even if she strained. Part of her hoped that no one she knew was in the hallway; no one saw a District Court Judge waltz out of her dorm like he had the right to be there. Her hands were trembling, so she shoved them between her thighs. She looked around the room.

When she’d first enrolled and took up this single dorm with ensuite bathroom, she’d told herself that she’d earned this luxury. She’d told herself that it was necessary to live by herself because having a roommate would magnify the danger of someone finding out about her arrangement with Jefferson.

But now there was no arrangement. There was only… only a promise to keep away from him. She was being paid to do absolutely nothing; to simply exist and live. Like trust fund children, except that she had just signed away any hopes for her inheritance without even lifting a pen.

Reaching out blindly, her fingers found her phone. She unlocked it and pulled up the contacts page without looking. She buried her face between her knees and pressed the phone to her ear.

“Angelica?”

If there was anything she’d learned in the past couple of weeks, it was this: there were some parts of fairytales that were true. Angelica might not fix everything, but she could help Sally feel like she _did_.

And that was good enough.

***

 _April 6, Wednesday_  
  
Alexander’s throat felt like it was on fire, scraped raw with his screaming. His back had long gone past that point, and now felt merely raw, as if Burr had managed to strip his skin off him without even breaking it.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to chase the black gate that was still looming up in front of him. But it was getting further and further away from him, every breath adding another foot until it disappeared from his sight. He sobbed, fingers clawing at wood. Bits of varnish and polish flaked off; his nails threatened to break.

A hand closed around his wrist. “You don’t get injured unless it’s by me,” Burr said, his voice as cold as it had been since they began. Alexander gasped, tipping his head back, and his body lurched, nearly tumbling down to the ground like an unwieldly sack of flour when Burr loosened the strap holding his left wrist to the cross. 

“Steady,” Burr commanded. His hand closed around Alexander’s shoulder, thumb digging into a lash mark. Alexander bit the inside of his cheek, but Burr released him to slap his mouth, sharp and quick, before going back to hold him still.

“What did I just _say_?” he asked, frustration clear in his voice.

“Sorry,” Alexander blurted out. “Sorry, Master. Shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry, Master. I’m so—”

Slim fingers wrapped around his jaw, turning his next apologies into incoherent stutters. Alexander squeezed his eyes shut beneath the blindfold.

“You’re apologising more than usual,” Burr noted. All he needed was the soft _scritch-scritch_ of pen on paper to sound like a doctor recording a patient’s symptoms. 

“Why, have you accumulated more sins lately?”

Alexander stopped breathing entirely. His eyes went wide beneath the blindfold, enough to catch a slice of light from where his jerking against the cross had managed to loosen the knot somehow. Burr’s hand was still on his jaw. He licked his lips, and the fingers slid away.

Did Burr already know? Did he suspect? How… 

“Was that a joke?” he heard himself say. His body jerked against the remaining restraints in surprise. What?

Burr didn’t answer. He didn’t laugh one of those cold laughs that came out only when they were behind the Debauchee’s walls. He only stepped backwards, enough to allow air-conditioning to waft over Alexander’s too-hot skin, before he loosened the strap on the right wrist.

“Be careful,” he said, and Alexander steeled himself to stand as Burr released him of the bonds around his ankles. He ended up collapsed against the cross anyway, practically hugging the wood as his world spun. 

_Had_ Burr make a joke?

“Stop thinking so loudly,” Burr said. Alexander clicked his mouth shut – he hadn’t even realised it was open. He let out a shuddering breath. “Drift.”

No matter how much Alexander tried, he never managed to disobey that particular order. Not that he really tried that hard, but that couldn’t be the reason. It must be something in Burr’s voice, some unidentified alloy in the steel, or even the particular angle of Burr’s nails as he scraped them lightly over the lash marks—

The thought cut off abruptly as he sank into the greyness of the void. There was no silver path, no black gate for him to reach. Just a sort of strange peace, as if he was suspended in liquid. Alexander barely felt it when Burr’s shoulder pushed against his sternum; didn’t even twitch when Burr lifted him into what must be a fireman’s carry, because he could feel a thin shoulder right beneath his stomach. The bouncing motions of Burr’s even, steady steps were calming, and Alexander was practically dozing even though he heard voices. A part of him recognised Wilmot’s, but the usual tight coil of some undefinable thing didn’t knot up his chest.

His eyes were closed when Burr took the blindfold off of him. Cotton beneath his nose. Then the sharper scent of something medicinal, and Alexander arched his back up and hissed when Burr’s fingers stroked a line of fire down his raw, aching back.

“Stop moving,” Burr said. He sounded distracted. “Stay down.”

“Yes, Master,” Alexander murmured. He planted his face back down onto the cotton upholstery of the couch. A part of him was yelling about the sheer waste of using cotton for couch covers, but the voice was small and he ignored it easily. It was so much easier to keep floating in that unending grey. Especially when the fire spread out more and more on his back, every single inch submerging him even further.

Burr’s hands never moved below his hips. His whip never touched the skin there either. Alexander’s underwear was still on, made sticky and uncomfortable by the sweat that had soaked into it. He made a soft noise deep inside his throat when Burr pulled it off, and nuzzled further into the cushions when he felt a fresh pair being pulled on.

It should be insulting, being undressed and dressed as if he was a child. Alexander told himself plenty of times before that it was. Hell, he never allowed anyone to do that for him. But Burr’s movements were so mechanical and detached that it was calming instead, tugging him even further down into the grey that had wrapped itself all around him. Shielding him from the world. 

Fingers in his hair. Alexander made an indescribable sound in the base of his throat, something shaped like a question. Burr didn’t speak, only started to stroke through his hair, and Alexander made that sound again even as he felt the grey begin to fade away.

That hand closed around his neck. Gentle, without pressure, but Alexander knew by now what Burr wanted: he tipped his head back, and drew his legs up. He let Burr pull him up until he was kneeling, careful to not touch the mess on his back. He kept his eyes closed even when he felt ceramic against his lips; only opened his mouth and let Burr feed him the mint tea and honey that was oddly effective in letting him keep his voice.

“Was that,” he said, licking his lips once the cup was moved away, “a joke?”

Now he could _feel_ it when Burr went motionless; some sort of shift in the air itself, as if the molecules making way for the man snapped back into position. Alexander blinked open his eyes, peering up towards Burr through his lashes.

“Not much of one,” Burr said. He put down the cup on the table with a dull _click_ , and picked up his usual vodka tonic. Alexander wrinkled his nose.

“I don’t know how you can drink that,” he said. “It tastes disgusting.”

When Burr took a particularly large gulp of the alcohol, Alexander knew it was to spite him. He couldn’t help grinning at that, though he stifled the expression as quickly as he could.

“Well,” Burr said, drawing out the word until it gained three more syllables, “I don’t know how you can flip a switch from being good to being annoying in just a few seconds. I guess we must both live with the mystery.”

Was that _another_ joke? Alexander blinked. He opened his mouth. Then his brain kicked in, and he said something different from what he planned:

“You thought I was good?”

Burr froze in the middle of leaning back against the couch. His eyes narrowed. 

“Pain is a reward for someone like you,” he said. _And I’ve been giving you a lot of pain lately,_ Alexander helped him finish. Burr had been raising the number of lashes bit by bit: it had been twenty the first time; Burr had just given him forty-five.

His hands twitched. He balled them into fists and dropped them on top of his thighs. “That’s not really a reward,” he pointed out. “More like part of the agreement.”

Trying to force a grin, he found that it came pretty easily. “You should give me a real reward,” he said.

Slowly, Burr’s eyebrow lifted. “For keeping your part of the agreement?” Scepticism practically dripped from his voice.

Alexander shook his head. His lips twitched up even more. “You said I was good,” he said, and shoved down that part of him that was wriggling in some incomprehensible giddy joy at that. “If I’m good, then I deserve a reward.”

“Still part of the agreement,” Burr said. 

“Then give me something else,” Alexander spread out his hands. “Challenge me. Give me something difficult to do.”

Burr didn’t speak for a long moment, only dropping back onto the couch and swirling his drink in his hand. Well-dressed, put together with barely any sweat on him, he looked like some kind of Bond villain; he just needed a cat on his lap to complete his image. Alexander almost bit his lip to swallow his laughter – he remembered that Burr told him not to do it, and swallowed hard instead. His hands fell back to his lap.

“Three days,” Burr said finally. “Two hours.”

 _Which_ , Alexander almost asked. Then he looked into those dark, inscrutable eyes and realised that this was part of the challenge, too. So he took a deep breath instead. Two hours spread over three days was too easy, and so was two hours every three days. So…

“Okay,” he said. “Two hours for the next three days.” That was much sooner than he thought. Maybe… maybe this might work too.

He sank his nails into his palm. Took another breath. “What do I have to do?”

“Nothing,” Burr told him.

Alexander blinked. “You want me to _stay still_ for two hours? Where? How? What are the conditions?”

The glass made a very quiet _thud_ on the wood of the table. Burr folded his hands, and crossed his legs. “Here,” he said. “You’re not to move. You’re not to make a sound. You’re going to kneel here, in this room. You’re not going to blink unless I tell you.”

That was… Alexander’s throat went dry immediately. He licked his lips, and croaked out, “You know I’m bad at that.”

“Exactly,” Burr nodded. There was the faintest hint of a smirk on the corner of his mouth. “You asked for a challenge, Hamilton.”

His last name sounded _weird_ on Burr’s tongue, all of a sudden. Never mind that Alexander still found it difficult to even associate ‘Aaron’ with the man, it just sounded weird. He stared down at his fingers.

“But I haven’t even told you what I want for my reward,” he said, voice quiet.

“I can guess,” Burr said, dry. “You want something from me. Most likely information.”

Alexander’s breath hitched. He could follow Burr’s train of thought; knew that Burr was most likely thinking that Alexander wanted him to tell him _something_ about him. Like… like what caused that look on his face, back in corner in the courthouse. 

_You’re wrong_ , he wanted to say. _That’s not what I want from you_. Alexander was never good at lying. He wore his opinions on his sleeve, his heart hung on a hook over his lapels. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t change that.

He dug his nails into his palm even harder. “Yeah,” he said, meeting Burr’s gaze. “I want information from you.”

There was just a moment when Burr looked at him, eyes narrowing slowly, when Alexander thought he was going to be found out. Part of him wanted Burr to find out, to know—

No, no, he only had one soul to sell. Not two. Not four.

“Alright then,” Burr said. He picked up his glass and drained it. The ice cubes clinked as they dropped against the thick bottom. “Tomorrow to Saturday. Three days, from six to eight.”

“I have work,” Alexander protested immediately. That meant that he had to leave the office by five, _latest_ , because he couldn’t be good for Burr if he hadn’t showered before and followed all of his instructions before stepping into this place.

“That’s part of the challenge,” Burr said. He stood up. His lips curved into a smile as he headed to the door. “Think about it. You have until midnight.”

Alexander watched as he left. Then he turned his eyes away, sweeping across the room. His backpack was lying on the ground beside the couch Burr had been sitting on; his dirty underwear was laid on top of it, neatly folded. 

Standing up carefully, he walked over to his bag. He shoved the underwear into a side pocket, creasing it and ruining the clean lines. His hands trembled as he took out his phone. Nine thirty-four. He had a little more than two hours.

But he knew his answer already. He dropped his head against the couch’s arm, closing his eyes. He didn’t look at the room because he knew that he was going to get overly familiar with it for the next three days. A laugh shuddered out of him.

Funny thing: staying still was the last thing he was worried about.

***

_April 7, Thursday_

Thomas had barely settled himself behind his desk when his office door was pushed open. The heavy wood thudded ominously against the wall. He looked up, and almost smiled at the sight of Angelica standing there.

“Have you decided to talk to me again?”

Angelica didn’t answer. Her foot kicked the door closed again, and she locked it without looking. Her heels thumped loudly on the carpeted floor of his office as she strode over to his desk and slammed both hands down on the wood. Paperweights and pens rattled; his laptop jumped. 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said. Her eyes were dark fire, practically scorching the air in front of his face. 

Folding his hands on top of his lap, Thomas leaned back hard on his chair. “There’s only one person I know who drives a car of that particular shade and model,” he said softly. “Add that to the fact that you’ve been giving me cold stares for weeks…”

His lips curved up into a smile, and he tipped his head back. “How long more were you going to wait to tell me that we share the same taste in women, Angelica?”

Her hand was a dark flash in the air as she grabbed his tie, bunching his collar. Her knuckles folded against the hollow of his throat, threatening to cut off his breathing. “How _dare_ you,” she hissed. Like he expected.

Widening his smile, Thomas cocked his head to the side. “Unlike what she might have told you, I’m not stupid,” he said. “I can still put the pieces together.”

Dark, sharp eyes bore into his. Then, abruptly, Angelica let go. His body hit the chair with a heavy _thump_ , and the thing squeaked beneath his sudden weight. The tip of his shoes dragged against the carpet as it slid backwards until its back slammed against the wall.

Angelica’s knee landed on the desk. She pushed away the papers, shoved the laptop to the side. A few pens skittered away, falling onto the ground. She didn’t seem to notice, her eyes fixed upon Thomas’s face as she crawled towards him. Slim fingers hooked over the arms of the chair, pulling it forward. She cupped his jaw with both hands.

“Oh, darling,” she crooned, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “You must be hurting _so bad_.”

Something in Thomas’s chest twisted. His eyes widened just in time to take in Angelica’s smile transmogrifying into a snarl. She drew one hand back, and slapped him across the face. His neck snapped to the side.

She slipped from the desk and into his lap, thighs spread around his hips. Her knees dug into his waist as she loomed above him. Her nails scraped from his temple down the sides of his face. She drew her hand back again.

Before she could hit him, Thomas reached out. He grabbed onto her wrist. “So that’s where she learned those tricks from,” he said. 

Her free hand closed around his throat. She didn’t squeeze, and shifted her palm back when he pushed forward.

“You tried to convince me to give you the case,” he said. His voice trembled even in his own ears. “That’s a hell of a conflict of interests you have there.”

“Oh yes,” Angelica said, still in that gentle, sing-song tone. She twisted her hand out of his grasp, fingertips dancing from his forehead down to his nose. She stroked the lines of his mouth as his hand dropped like a dead weight down onto the chair. She leaned in.

Her breath ghosted over his mouth as she said: “ _Good boy_.”

Thomas gasped. His back arched fully against the chair, throwing his head back. The hand on his neck squeezed hard, cutting off his air. 

Then she was gone. Her weight disappeared from his lap, her hand from his neck. The chair rolled backwards again, the back slamming against the wall. The impact reverberated through Thomas’s spine and shoulders, down to his bones, and he lurched forward just in time to be caught by her shoe on his chest. Sole right below his collarbone, stiletto heel digging in between two of his ribs.

There were stars in his eyes. He clawed at her leg, catching silky stocking with his nail. Then that pressure was gone too, and he was left to fall forward, forehead smacking against his knees.

He tried to breathe. He gulped air down his throat. His hands shook as he tried to press his knuckles against his eyes.

“What—” he tried to say, but his words caught in his throat and died before he could voice them. He squeezed his eyes shut and drew his legs up, hugging them to his chest.

“That’s what it feels like,” Angelica said, voice cold enough to chill him to the bone. 

Tipping his head back, Thomas forced himself to straighten. His hands clenched around the arms of his chair. His vision was swimming, but he could focus well enough to glare at her where she was perched on top of his desk, legs crossed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You accused Sally of rape,” Angelica said, still in that same voice that made the temperature of the room drop several degrees. “That’s what it feels like to _be_ raped. Entirely helpless, every movement out of your control. A pair of hands not yours holding onto all of your body’s puppet strings.”

Thomas opened his mouth. But before he could speak, Angelica struck again: she grabbed his jaw with her hands, pulling him forward. Her eyes were still burning with that dark fire, sending a sick, twisting heat down his body that added to the cold in his veins.

“The first time you consummated your little _deal_ ,” Angelica drew out the word, infused it with poison, “she tried to tell you.” Her nail dug into Thomas’s cheek, scraping through the rough, short hairs of his beard. “Do you remember?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to shake his head. “No,” he said. His voice came out as barely a croak.

“Try harder,” she snapped at him, the sound of her voice making his spine straighten involuntarily. He could feel her smirk without opening his eyes. He shook his head anyway.

“Let’s jolt your memory, _boy_ ,” she sneered. “Do you remember what you said? ‘It’s not a game. Nothing between Martha and me has ever been a game.’”

He jerked hard, pulling out of her grasp. Thomas glared, reaching out and bunching Angelica’s jacket lapels beneath his fists. “Don’t you _dare_ say her name,” he snarled. “Not like that.”

Her slap jerked his head to the side again. As the stinging started to fade, she shoved her knee against his throat, and her hand was in his hair, gripping the strands tight as she pulled his head back.

“I’ll stop saying her name like that when you stop using her as an excuse for all that you do,” Angelica whispered into his ear, her breath caressing the curve and his jaw. “I’ll stop the _moment_ your actions actually match your words.” 

Thomas opened his mouth. He closed it. He tried to shake his head. Angelica’s grip on his hair tightened even further. His neck muscles screamed as she pulled up all the way back until he was staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. The nails of her other hand scraped over his throat, especially sharp-rough over his Adam’s apple. 

“All Sally has done is what you made her do,” she told him, voice flat as if rattling off a fact. “You told her to behave like Martha, and so she did.”

“No,” he choked out. “No, no—”

“Shut up,” Angelica said. She squeezed his throat to emphasise her point, but she didn’t have to. Thomas had no words left: only tremors, wreaking through his body.

Her nails scraped over his throat again. “Consent,” she murmured, poison-sweet, “is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot hold up in this court.”

His words on her lips. Thomas opened his eyes. His words still pasted on his table, a daily reminder. He didn’t make himself bleed anymore because Madison said he shouldn’t.

“Who has power between you and Sally?” Angelica demanded. “Who holds all of the cards?”

She let go. Thomas’s knees hit the ground. _Rapist_ , Sally accused him. _Rapist, rapist, rapist_. Looping and looping in his head.

Madison’s hands on his wrist. Madison’s fingers inside him. Madison’s cock sliding between his lips. Darkness, darkness, _darkness_ …

“Who holds all of the cards?” Angelica’s voice, coming from far away.

On his knees in an alleyway. _An exorcism_ , he told Catherine Ring. He’d wanted an exorcism. Sitting on the curb, road empty. Control. _Rape is a crime of power, not of sex_. Straight out of the law textbooks. Darkness: the alleyway, the stench of piss and vomit and sex. Darkness: his own bedroom, silk over his eyes, silk on his wrists.

Light: Sally, sitting on top of him. She was always so nervous.

“ _Shit_ ,” Angelica said. But Thomas wasn’t listening anymore. Images and words and _memories_ poured into his mind. 

Exorcism: here in his office, Martha’s ghost standing over Sally’s figure. Exorcism: him on his knees in the alleyway. Exorcism: a restaurant bathroom, pillars falling around him, grasping onto… onto…

 _Rapist_.

What were his ghosts? Where were his ghosts? _Consent is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot hold up in this court._ Sally as Martha’s substitute. Substitute, substitute. A clear dividing line but he stood on _both sides_ —

Thomas choked when fingers closed over his neck, stopping his air. He seized, trying to get out of the hold, but there was another hand, pressing down on his chest. His body jerked upwards. Thighs on his sides, the full weight of a body on top of his chest. The hand let go. He sucked in oxygen.

“Breathe, you fucking _bastard_. I don’t need you dead. Don’t fucking die on me, dammit!”

Consent. Power. _Fix this for me. Help me fly_. Madison looming over him. Madison’s arm over his waist. Madison bracketing him, wholly and completely. Living room of his own house, asking for permission to meet Lafayette. Restaurant bathroom, asking for permission to speak French.  
_  
Rapist_. Sally as a Martha’s substitute. Why did he always refer to Madison by his last name in his own head? 

Sally as _Madison’s_ substitute.

The pieces snapped together but the picture still didn’t make any sense. He was standing on both sides of the line. Light on one, dark on the other. That shouldn’t be. That couldn’t be.

 _Hypocrite_.

His eyes snapped open. A shadow swung off him just as he sat up, gasping. A hand on his hair, pulling his head back, forcing him to bare his throat.

“Inhale,” a sharp command. Thomas obeyed instinctively. “Hold it in.” He did. “Exhale.”

She repeated this a few more times. Slowly, the flood retreated. Air returned to his lungs. Thomas was still shaking. He skittered away from the shadow at the corner of his eyes, pressing himself against the desk with his knees pressed against his chest. He buried his face in between them.  
_  
_ “What the fuck happened to you?” 

Lifting his head, Thomas blinked. The shadows coalesced into a person. Angelica, sitting there on her calves on the floor of his office. Her face fully lit by the sun. Darkness and light, a clear dividing line. 

He shook his head.

“Okay,” Angelica said. He watched her take a deep breath. “When did these attacks start happening?”

“Why,” he started, but his voice cracked mid-word. “Why do you care?” Angelica should hate him. _Rapist, hypocrite, rapist, hypocrite_. Sally’s voice crawling into his body, her words engraving themselves onto his bones.

Angelica pinched the bridge of her nose. She tipped her head back, and heaved out a sigh. “Because you look pathetic and like you’re going to fall apart at any moment,” she said. “And I don’t think it’s entirely because of the conversation we were having.”

Thomas’s shoulders shook. When he started to laugh, he wasn’t even sure of the reason why. It just made sense to, at the moment. He rested his forehead against his knees, shaking. Angelica didn’t move; she seemed to wait him out.

Then the urge died as sudden as it started. Thomas met those dark eyes again. He smiled; it felt grotesque. 

“I’m a terrible person, aren’t I?” he asked. His shoulders seized again.

“Yeah,” Angelica said. Her voice was soft, practically gentle, and Thomas shuddered. “But that’s not what I asked.”

His eyes fell shut again. Darkness and light, a clear dividing line. Yet he stood on both sides. His nails drove into his thigh but his slacks were too thick for him to feel much. He exhaled.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You’re already asking something,” Angelica said. When Thomas didn’t reply, she sighed. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“If…” he licked his lips. He forced his eyes open and met Angelica’s gaze. He tried to smile. “If I’m a rapist, then can I still be raped?”

Angelica froze. Her entire body stopped moving for just a moment: she stopped rubbing her fingertips over her nails, stopped shifting her weight from one calf to another. Her chest stopped rising and falling.

Then, slowly, her eyes narrowed. She leaned forward. “This isn’t some fucked up attempt at sympathy, is it,” she said, more of a statement than a question. She stared into his eyes for long moments more.

“I didn’t come here just because I was angry about what you’re doing to Sally, you know,” Angelica said. “She told me to not confront you. She’s not a damsel to be saved, she said.” There was almost a fond smile on her lips; it died quickly. “I came because it wasn’t fair.”

Thomas blinked.

“Madison went to see her yesterday,” Angelica told him. “He told her to stop contacting you. Told her a lot of things, including the fact that he has access to your financial records.”

Of course Madison had access. Thomas had given it to him weeks ago. He opened his mouth to say that, and closed it again. _Consent is irrelevant_ — he cut off the rest of the monologue. He knew what it was trying to tell him, now.

He should have realised long ago.

“Yeah,” he said instead. He stared at the wood of the desk. Scratched it absentmindedly until the varnish scraped off and a splinter popped out. Angelica caught his hand before he could shove it underneath his nail.

“You have a really fucking shitty way of trying to make-believe that the world is simple,” Angelica said. She was holding onto his wrist, loose enough that he could pull away at any moment. If this was any other time, he would be laughing in triumph at how much she was swearing at work. He didn’t do either. He merely continued to stare.

“Now it’s your turn to not answer the question,” he said.

“Because I can’t,” Angelica said. She ran a hand over her hair. “I have no clue what is happening between you and Madison. But it’s…” She hesitated, and then shrugged.

“One doesn’t preclude the other,” she sighed again. “The world is complicated.”

Thomas blinked. She smiled, mirthless and bitter, her eyes so dark.

“Listen,” she said, letting go of his hand to cup his jaw. Thomas flinched at the touch, but she didn’t let go. “You’re not the hero. But you’re not the villain either. All you are is what you choose to see of yourself and your deeds. How you choose to see.”

“Then there’s no universal truth in the world,” he whispered.

Angelica threw her head back. She laughed. Even the echoes of it ringing in this hole under his desk sounded sincere.

“We’re lawyers,” Angelica said. “It’s our job to make people see events and people how _we_ want them to see them. If there was a universal truth, if that could be found for people at all, then our profession wouldn’t exist.”

The picture had all come together and yet nothing made sense. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. He shook his head. Everything was still crowding in at once. 

“Two weeks, Jefferson,” Angelica said. She sounded far away. Thomas could now only see her legs. “You have two weeks to decide what you’re going to do about Sally’s situation, or else I’m going to decide for you.”

“Then you’ll just be forcing your choices on me,” Thomas blurted out. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to continue: “Like I did on her.”

Angelica bent her head down. Her hair fell across her face; she tucked it away. She smiled at him, almost sweet.

“I know,” Angelica said. “I’m not a hero either.” She straightened. Thomas heard her heels on the carpet again.

“Unlike you,” her voice floated back to him, “I never tried to make myself believe I was one.”

The door closed behind her. Thomas closed his eyes. He thumped his head against the side of the desk. Then he did it a few more times. Pain exploded behind his eyes. But it didn’t help to clear his thoughts. Everything was still a complicated tangle and he didn’t even know where to begin.

His fingers itched. His throat itched. Thomas scrambled out from beneath the desk. He headed for the safe, opening it. It was empty: no cigarettes, no alcohol. Madison had made him throw all of that out weeks ago. There was only a folder. The argument Madison had written for him.

Madison helped him write his argument. The one he gave in court was more Madison’s than his. Thomas looked down: Madison’s tie, resting across his cuff. A little scuffed from Angelica’s shoes. He wanted to be drunk and he wanted to smoke but Madison forbade both.

All he had left were pillars shattered at his feet. Pillars Madison had built. He took the printed argument out of the safe and locked it again. He put the file into his briefcase.

Simplicity. He needed simplicity. He needed a beginning.

 _Fix this for me_.

No. Not there. Never again, with what he suspected. With what he _knew_.

Thomas walked towards the window. He smacked his head against the glass. It was cool; it gave no answers. He opened his eyes and stared out to the city skyline. New York. 

_Oh._ There had always been someone who could make everything simple for him.

He scrambled for his laptop. After he was done, he breathed, and checked the time.

Ten twenty-three in the morning. His day was just beginning. He switched on his weather app, neglected for weeks. Here: forty-five degrees Fahrenheit. He found a piece of paper, and wrote down the numbers. He folded it and tucked it into his briefcase, right beside the file.

Then he went to change his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially my most well-rounded chapter, plot-wise: all six of my plotlines are nudged forward and all five of my protagonists appear here. The only person without his own POV scene is Madison, but I think his characterisation is shown and his own plotline is represented well enough. 
> 
> Also, check the summary again. The POV chosen for every scene is the person being attacked for the sake of someone’s protection. There are no exceptions to this rule. Man, I love playing around with POVs.
> 
> Did I mention that Jefferson’s is a redemption arc? Because it has always been planned as a redemption arc. I just need to shatter him completely first because a guy like that needs nothing less before he could even begin to think it necessary to change. It took him _nineteen chapters_ just for that. Holy shit.
> 
> PS: I have lost all shame, and I've hit that stupid abyss again, so: please validate me via comments. I'm sorry for doing this.


	20. the sky's the limit I'm helpless!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When everything falls apart, what do you have to hold on to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: depiction of violence and also discussion of a very controlling and abusive relationship. Second scene: explicit depiction of heavy, psychological BDSM and aftercare. Third scene: Nothing but the blanket warning. Oh, look: things are finally calming down.

_April 8, Friday_  
  
Friday evening, Grand Central station: people pouring out of trains, rushing from work, halfway to the weekend even though the sun was still shining above the high ceiling. Shoes clicking on concrete, snatches of conversation that drifted past, a saxophone playing near the Times Square shuttle. 

James folded the small piece of paper in his hand. He tucked it inside his jacket pocket. He took out his phone. No new messages. It went back to his pocket, too. He crossed his arms and leaned against the pillar.

The group of dancers in their corner finished their performance. The leader took a sweeping bow, and the mob that had gathered around them hooted and cheered. Patrolling police officers slowed down, heads turned towards each other, whispering into each other’s ears. James checked the time again. Only a minute had passed. The knot in his stomach drew even tighter and bigger.

A man was running up the stairs from the Uptown 4, 5, 6 platform. Curls tied back in a tight ponytail, neatly-trimmed beard. He stopped at the top of the stairs, looking around, practically pirouetting on his heel. His chest heaved for breath even as he muttered what looked like apologies, getting out of the way of the rest of the crowd.

Thomas would never be caught dead in those casuals, but there was something about the line of that man’s jaw and the shape of his eyes that knocked the breath out of James’s lungs. He hunched forward, pressing a hand to his mouth. He started to cough hard, shoulders shaking, squeezing his eyes shut so he no longer saw the man. His back slid down the pillar as stars began to appear in front of his eyes.

Warmth wrapping around his hand. James gripped tight even though he knew those long fingers didn’t belong to Thomas. Thomas wouldn’t be holding onto him like this. Thomas wouldn’t…

His body seized up, muscles locking together. James fell forward as his knees locked. Arms wrapped around him, holding him up, pressing him against the pillar. Knuckles stroked down over his back, slow and soothing. Words in a foreign language poured into his ears in a voice both terribly familiar and horribly strange.

Somehow, he managed to get a grip on himself. He pushed down the next coughing fit, taking a deep, shuddering breath instead. His hand groped at his messenger bag, but was batted away. There was the rasp of a zip, and cool metal was pressed against his lips.

“Drink,” Lafayette murmured. “Slowly, please.”

Nodding, James tipped his head back. Chilled water from his thermos slid down his throat, soothing the fire that had broken out on the frayed edges of the knot that had moved down his chest.

“How did you…” James coughed again, wiping his mouth on his forearm. Lafayette screwed the top of the thermos shut and slipped it back into the bag.

“Thomas’s favourite topic is you,” Lafayette said, a wry smile curling on the edge of his mouth. His eyes crossed, and his bottom lip stuck out as he blew away a curl that had fallen into his eyes. That was such a Thomas thing to do that James shoved his hand hard against his mouth, ducking his head down as his shoulders shook with the beginning of another seizure.

This time, Lafayette didn’t touch him. He only stood there, a little distance from James. His body was too slim to shield James entirely from enquiring eyes, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t trying his best.

“He’s gone,” James said when he could let his hand fall from his mouth. He dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out the well-creased piece of paper that he had been reading over and over again throughout the day as he tried to focus on his work while his mind felt like it was going to fall apart.

Taking the paper, Lafayette unfolded it. His skin was just a shade or two lighter than Thomas’s, the difference barely noticeable.

“Went to see Martha,” Lafayette read out. His hands trembled a little as he folded the paper again, and he squeezed his eyes shut. James knew what he was thinking about; the same thoughts had been running through his head for hours. “He hasn’t said anything to you?”

“Nothing,” James said. He stared down at his hands, and then ran both shakily through his curls. “He was completely fine last night.” Thomas had even initiated more of the sex: reached out for him, kissed him, and climbed into his lap with that beautiful, impish smile. He had learned to tease so very well.

Shaking his head, he shelved the memories away. They didn’t matter. “His phone goes straight to voicemail. And I called every police station and morgue in the city,” he said, voice slightly tremulous. “But none of them have seen anyone matching his description.”

He’d also checked Thomas’s financial records, just to see if there were any withdrawals or purchases made. Aside from the cash withdrawal of a couple of thousand dollars earlier in the week, there was nothing.

“Have you called his office? Asked if anyone saw him, or if they saw something strange last night?” Lafayette asked.

“Yeah,” James nodded. He shoved his hands into his pockets, sagging against the wall. “No one said anything. He came in, he gave them their assignments. One of them said that he looked tired, but that wasn’t new to just yesterday. Or even this whole week.” Even though Thomas had been sleeping better than he had. Even though Thomas no longer needed his usual poisonous sleep aids.

“Did you manage to get everyone in the office?”

James shook his head. “Angelica Schuyler wasn’t there,” he said. “But Thomas told me that she hadn’t been speaking to him for weeks, so she wouldn’t know anything anyway.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I have a copy of his phone contacts, and I called every single person who might have a hint.”

He’d even called Sally Hemings. She told him – voice steady with barely a hint of nervousness – that she hadn’t heard from Thomas since last Saturday.

There was _nothing_. An empty house, a single note hurriedly scrawled. No one should be able to disappear without a trace in this era, and yet, here Thomas was, doing the impossible again.

Lafayette was staring at him. James blinked, lifting his head. The other man had a palm flat against the pillar, practically leaning his full weight on it as his eyes fixed upon James’s face. 

“What is it?”

“Why,” Lafayette started slowly, “do you have a copy of Thomas’s phone contacts?” Before James could answer, Lafayette’s head cocked to the side. “I was going to ask if it’s possible to call the banks to ask for his credit card statement, or ask Mulligan for a favour to do that, but… you already have that, don’t you.”

James didn’t blink. He simply met Lafayette’s gaze. “Thomas didn’t buy anything with his credit card in the past couple of days,” he replied.

Eyes narrowed, Lafayette straightened. He tugged at the hem of his t-shirt and then retied his ponytail. His eyes didn’t leave James’s even once, and James held that gaze. He knew what that implied for those in the know. Still, Lafayette knowing was an unpleasant surprise. __  
  
_A friend I made in France_ , Thomas had said of this man. Thomas had been in Paris for four years; he had taken his Bachelor’s at the École Normale Superiure at around the same time while James was in Columbia. If he’d met Lafayette then…

No. No, it couldn’t be. There couldn’t be anything between them. He trusted Thomas when he said that Lafayette was a friend; Thomas hadn’t broken the rules of being honest with him once. Not even now: he was surely being honest when he said that he was going to see Martha. That didn’t mean that Lafayette couldn’t feel more for Thomas, especially since he kept pronouncing Thomas’s name with that rather annoying French lilt.

“I think we should be having this conversation somewhere far more private than this,” Lafayette said slowly. “Will you come with me, Mr Madison?”

“Just Madison will do,” James said. He held out his hand.

Lafayette glanced at his open palm for a moment. Then he nodded and gave the piece of paper with Thomas’s handwriting back – possibly the last thing James would have of Thomas that was freely given to him – before he started walking.

They headed out of the station and up the stairs. Lafayette walked briskly without looking back, turning towards 42nd Street. He pushed open the doors of the Grand Hyatt Hotel, strode up to the reception, and asked for a private room without even a by-your-leave. James shoved his hands into his pockets and watched as Lafayette took the key. He met the receptionist’s eyes and knew that she recognised him, but he couldn’t care less about what this might do to his reputation right now. 

The room they were given was situated at one of the upper-most floors. They didn’t talk in the elevator. James rubbed his fingers over the paper, tracing the creases with his thumb. If he strained, he could almost feel the ink of Thomas’s pen. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine Thomas hunched over his desk, scrawling something in his narrow cursive, and putting it on the nightstand where James found it this morning.

Hands grabbed him by the lapels the moment they stepped through the door. James didn’t resist as he was slammed against the wood, metal chain rattling from the impact. He simply tipped his head up, and met Lafayette’s eyes. The man was exactly Thomas’s height.

“I’m not much of a man for violence,” Lafayette said, his voice soft. “But what you are doing to my friend is rather disturbing, Mr Madison.”

James closed his hands around Lafayette’s wrists. He didn’t pull them away; only squeezed to let Lafayette know that he was only staying in this position because he _wanted_ to.

“You’re assuming that I’m doing any of this without Thomas’s permission,” he said just as quietly.

“That’s not an unreasonable assumption to make,” Lafayette said, cocking his head to the side. “The Thomas I know is a man full of pride, so much that he edges towards arrogance. He believes himself to always be doing the right thing. The Thomas I know would never have agreed to hand over so much control of his life to someone else.”

Shaking his head, James’s lips curved into a cold smile. “You have been gone from his life for a long time, Mr Lafayette,” he said. “You have been _in_ his life for only a short time. The Thomas you know no longer exists.”

“Really?” Lafayette asked. His mouth mirrored James’s; the expression was incongruous on his open face. “Or is that an excuse you give yourself to justify your actions?”

“I don’t need to justify my actions to myself,” James said. His thumbs dug in between the fragile bones of Lafayette’s wrist – there was a definite limit to his patience. “Neither do I have to justify them to someone who comes to conclusions before they understand the facts.”

“Forgive me,” Lafayette drawled, no sincerity in his tone whatsoever. His fists gripped tighter on James’s lapels, knuckles digging into the soft flesh between collarbones and ribs. “You see, Mr Madison, I’m worried. Between what you have admitted and what I saw of Thomas the last time, I find it hard to believe that you actually have his wellbeing in mind.”

James’s eyes narrowed. “What did you see in Thomas last time?” That had been last Thursday. Thirty-first of March. Barely eight days ago. It seemed like a lifetime.

Abruptly, Lafayette let him go. He stepped back from James and headed for the minibar, yanking the door open with unnecessary force and pulling out a bottle. He tossed the liquid back heavily, but the effect was rather diminished by the fact that it was mineral water.

He sat down on the one single bed in the room and kicked off his shoes. He crossed his legs, eyes returning to James. James ignored his gaze, walking past him to the window. He drew up the blinds, staring out at the still-lit skyline. Thomas was somewhere out there. He was out there, and he was still breathing. James knew that. He _knew_ that. Even if he didn’t, he was going to hold onto that knowledge until he had proof otherwise.

Everything else had fallen apart and there was nothing left.

“Fear,” Lafayette said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence that had fallen between them. When James turned around, the man was sitting on the bed with his legs crossed and hair loose, scrubbing his hand over his face. “All I saw in him was fear.”

Lifting his head, he gave James a bland smile. “I have never seen him afraid, Mr Madison. Much less to this extent.”

“That’s not fear,” James told the window. He rested his forehead against it, feeling the chill against his sweaty skin. He shivered. “That’s brokenness. I’ve seen it before.”

“When?” Lafayette asked, so quiet now.

“Five years ago.”

Lafayette should know what he meant; _when_ he meant. There was nothing more significant in Thomas’s life than that morning when he’d woken up next to a corpse who’d used to be his beloved, adored wife. James remembered, too, that right before they took the bar for New York, Thomas had flown to Paris for eighteen days. He hadn’t asked for the reason then; he didn’t have to, now.

There was a quiet _thump_. When James looked back, Lafayette was lying flat on the bed, staring up to the ceiling.

“Not only five years ago, was it?” Lafayette said.

James closed his eyes. “No.”

“He looked so terrified, that night after I landed. He refused to speak French.”

“Yeah,” James murmured. “I had to give him permission first.”

“ _Why?_ ” The question seemed to be wrenched out of Lafayette’s throat.

“Because his world shattered, and I built a new foundation with my hands,” James told New York’s skyline. His shoulders shuddered as another sharp tremor ran through him. His hand turned into a claw against the glass, scraping his nails against it. A shriek rang out in the room, starting a thunder at the back of James’s head, but he ignored it.

“It’s something I had to do,” he continued. “Considering that I broke that foundation in the first place.”

Lafayette didn’t speak for a long time. He wasn’t silent: James could hear him rolling around the bed, rustling the sheets and most likely messing it up entirely. That was something else he shared with Thomas: the inability to stay still. Or was James merely projecting now, seeing Thomas every place he looked?

“When he met me, he implied that he felt…” he paused. “Something which I will not define without him here to correct me, but something significant, towards a man. Towards you.”

Of _course._

“There are some things about Thomas that I never managed to…” Lafayette trailed off. “He’s brilliant. Wonderfully charming. He was the first person who wholly and completely believed in me when I said that I wanted to revolutionise my family’s company, and he helped me think up of ways to do it even though I met him years before I could take over.”

“Yeah,” James whispered. “He’s quite something.”

“But there are some things about him that grate,” Lafayette continued. “He holds his own opinions to a pedestal that no one else’s can reach. And a lot of those views are…” 

Turning around, James gave him a smile he didn’t feel. “Just give things their proper names,” he said.

Lying on his stomach on the bed, Lafayette lifted his head. He closed his eyes, and sighed heavily. “Thomas is a bigot in so many ways,” he said quietly. “There are parts of myself that I will never show to him because he will turn away from me.” He shook his head. “Or worse, he’ll try to convince me to change. Not for my own good, but so he could still have my friendship and still be right.”

James couldn’t help it: he laughed. His head thumped back hard against the windows as his shoulders shook with the wrecks of it. “That’s…” He pressed his knuckles against his eyes, sliding down onto the floor. “That’s the most accurate and succinct way I’ve heard anyone phrase his probable reaction.”

“But it’s different with you, isn’t it?” Lafayette asked. “The pedestal was set against his regard for you, and that pedestal fell.”

Scrubbing his hand over his eyes, James gave Lafayette a watery smile. “That’s quite a hundred eighty you did there,” he said lightly. “You went from accusing me of abuse to saying that he loved me.”

Lafayette sighed again. He rolled off of the bed, walked over and sat down in front of James. His legs sprawled around him, taking up more space than strictly necessary, and that was _such_ a Thomas thing to do that James had to close his eyes so he didn’t do something he would regret.

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” Lafayette told him. “He could love you and you could still be abusing him.” He paused. “You could love him and you could still be abusing him.”

“Do you think,” James said, lips curving up into a dull, flat smile, “I’m not aware of that?”

“No,” Lafayette said. “I think you’re perfectly aware. But there is a difference between awareness and having someone confirm that awareness.”

“Is that why you agreed to meet me?”

Lafayette rolled his eyes, huffing out a sigh. “I agreed to meet you because you said your name is Madison,” he said, dry. “And also you told me that one of my dearest friends simply up and _disappeared_ and might be dead.”

Dead. James closed his eyes. Elbows on his knees, he fell forward, burying his face into his hands.

“You’re right,” he said, voice muffled. “There’s a big difference between awareness and having someone confirm it.”

He was trembling all over again. He didn’t know if he could stop. His hand shifted to his forehead, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to breathe through his teeth. A hand dropped onto his shoulder and squeezed hard, nails digging into his skin through the layers of jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. James shook his head.

“Doesn’t work on me,” he said, uncaring that he was revealing a piece of himself to Lafayette. He had revealed enough already for that to no longer matter.

The hand stayed where he was, but another one brushed over his cheek, sliding down into his neck. Lafayette hissed, a sharp sound, and James’s shoulders shook because he knew what caused it: his skin was ice cold, with a sheen of sweat that never seemed to dry.

His body always betrayed him at the most inopportune moments. He couldn’t fall apart; not now. Not when he had to find Thomas.

But there was nothing else he could do. Aside from tearing through the streets and screaming his name, he had tried every single avenue.

“I’ll call John and Hercules and tell them to keep a lookout for someone of his description,” Lafayette was telling him, voice low and calm. “They have connections. They can pull a few strings so that we’ll know before anyone else does.”

“Tried that already,” James said. He pressed the heels of his hands even against into his eyes. Stars burst but they weren’t sharp enough. _Dead, dead, dead_ continued to ring like a litany in his head.

“But it must’ve been at least a few hours since you called to check,” Lafayette said. “A lot could have happened in that much time.”

“Go ahead,” James said. He dropped his forehead onto his knees, still trying to breathe through the tightening knot in his chest. “But if they’ve found his body, I don’t want to hear it.”

He met Lafayette’s eyes. Fixed on them so he didn’t have to look at the jawline and cheekbones that were so similar to Thomas’s. “That’s quite something, isn’t it?” he asked. “If he’s dead, then I might as well have killed him myself.”

There was, James thought, something to be said about saying things aloud, too. It made everything so real. 

Lafayette’s hands closed around his ankles. He tugged. James allowed his legs to be straightened out, and he closed his eyes as Lafayette crawled into his lap. He buried his face into that broad shoulder, wrapped his arms around that slim chest.

“It’s not your fault,” Lafayette murmured. The French accent was gone entirely. “Shhh, James. It wasn’t your fault.”

The laugh crawled out of James’s throat and scraped over his tongue: dark and bitter and harsh. “I’m not _stupid_ , Mr Lafayette,” he said, making to pull away. Lafayette didn’t let go, only holding on tighter.

“Alright,” he said. His breath ghosted over James’s cheek. “Will you answer something for me, then?”

“What do you want to know?” There was already enough of him exposed that he might as well just give up the rest. At least, then, it would be willingly. He laughed again.

“When Thomas’s world crashed the second time, you rebuilt it for him,” Lafayette said. “But how long has _your_ foundation been him, Madison?” 

A part of James noted the lack of title. But most of him was focused on trying to stay steady enough to answer the question. Lafayette’s cologne smelled like something Thomas would wear.

“I met him on my first day of high school,” James said. He burrowed deeper into Lafayette’s shoulder, seeking the scent and filling his lungs up with it. He might not be stupid, but he could still _pretend_.

A sharp intake of breath. “That long?” 

“No,” James laughed again. “He didn’t need me until five years ago.” 

He didn’t say more; Lafayette didn’t need more. Here was where his lines and James’s met precisely while Thomas’s went in the opposite direction.

“Ah,” Lafayette said. His hand flattened on James’s chest, and moved it down.

After long moments of silence, Lafayette said: “Another question.”

“Go ahead,” James murmured. He didn’t really want to speak, but he figured that Lafayette deserved something in return for what he was doing for his sake.

“Would you prefer it for Thomas be alive, but is torn away from you for the rest of your lives… or for him to be dead while still yours?”

James shoved himself away. “How—” he started, but his voice died in his throat, burned away by the rising rage. He gripped Lafayette’s shirt, shoving the man down to the floor and looming over him.

“How could you even ask such a thing?”

Lafayette’s eyes were still calm even though James’s hands must be restricting his breathing. “Confirmation,” he said flatly. “Answer the question, Madison.”

“For him to be alive,” James said, exerting all of his will to keep his voice even. His breath wrested out of him in a ragged rush. “I don’t _care_ what happens after. Even if I don’t get to see him again, I’d want him to be _alive_.”

That dark, narrow gaze continued staring at him. Then Lafayette’s entire body slackened as he slumped against the floor. His chest trembled beneath James’s hands as he tried to take a breath.

“I don’t think Thomas is dead,” Lafayette said.

“What?”

“His note said that he’s going to see Martha,” Lafayette told him. Before James could tell him to get to the point, long fingers closed around his wrists, nearly tight enough to cut off the blood circulation to his hands. “There’s always one thing Thomas always said about Martha.”

When Martha died, Thomas said, _The world continues to turn, but it should not. It should not._ Martha had been the axis on which his world spun. Without Martha, Thomas’s world had stopped making sense. Because Martha had always helped everything make sense to him. Thomas always built his world around those he allowed into his heart.

 _Oh_.

“He said that to you too,” Lafayette murmured, but James wasn’t listening to him anymore. Thomas wasn’t dead. Thomas was in _Virginia_. He was at Monticello. __  
  
At Martha’s grave. 

“I need to go to him,” he said. He tried to scramble to his feet, but Lafayette’s hand shifted to his chest in that moment. James felt the air he had fought so hard for being knocked out of his lungs, and his back slammed against the floor as Lafayette flipped their positions around.

“ _Stay here_ ,” Lafayette said, voice dipping low into a growl. “Don’t go to him.”

“Let go of me,” James snarled back. He rocked his hips upwards, trying to throw the other man off. His hands grabbed for Lafayette’s neck, but Lafayette was far faster than most, gripping his wrists again and pinning them down onto the floor.

“The worst thing you can do right now is to go to him,” Lafayette said, eyes burning as they fixed on James’s face. “He needs time. He needs space. Give him that.”

“I need to see that he’s _alive_ ,” James snapped.

“Then you _wait_ ,” Lafayette shot back, lips drawing back to bare his teeth. “You wait for him to come back to you. For however long it takes for him to be ready.” 

“You don’t know what will happen if I leave him alone!” James protested. “He could—”

“He’s not a _child_!” The sheer volume of Lafayette’s voice had James slamming his head back down on the floor, eyes wide as he stared at the man pinning him down. Lafayette gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell a few times, every breath ragged.

“Remember what you told me,” Lafayette said. “You’d rather him alive and parted from you forever than him dead and yours. But that is not a choice for you to make. Let him make that choice.”

“That’s not a good idea,” James retorted immediately, trying to buck Lafayette off again. “He’s vulnerable now. He’s barely holding on. He’s going to hurt himself again if I leave him alone.”

Lafayette leaned in closer. His eyes were dark, practically aflame. But when his forehead touched James’s, shoving his head back to the floor, there was no pain.

“And whose fault is that?” Barely a whisper.

So that was why Lafayette’s touch was gentle: his words hurt so much more. James’s breath caught in his throat. For the first time in years, his eyes burned. He jerked his head to the side and stared at the carpet of the room. It was a rather nice shade of cobalt blue.

“I have three children,” Lafayette told him. “They are very young; the oldest is but six. I would do anything and everything in my power to give them all they need and want, to protect them from harm so they know nothing but happiness. But I cannot. If I do, they will never make mistakes. They will never earn scars that will soften future blows when I can no longer protect them.”

Swinging his legs around James’s body, he stood up. He walked back to the bed, sitting down heavily on it. “ _Le chemin de l’enfer est pavé de bonnes intentions_ ,” he sighed. “In English, I believe the proverb is ‘the road is hell is paved with good intentions.”

James sat up. He pressed the heels of his palms to both eyes, letting out a ragged breath. He felt cold all over, as if the conversation had drained out every drop of heat from his body. He rubbed a hand over his mouth.

“Another saying to add to the list, though this is more of a cliché than a proverb,” he said. “If you love something, let it go. If it loves you back, it will come back to you.”

He tipped his head back and met Lafayette’s eyes upside-down. “Like you said, Thomas isn’t a child. He’s not a thing either.” he said.

“But the principle still applies,” Lafayette shrugged. He took another swig of his water, running a hand over his face. He looked nearly as drained and tired as James felt. “It must apply, with the relationship you have with him.”

“That,” James said slowly, “is the second time you refused to put a name to something when it has one.”

Flopping back down on the bed, Lafayette grabbed a pillow and pressed his face against it. Then he pulled it away, and looked at James with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Thomas is your sub, Madison,” Lafayette told him. “In that context, his consent needs even more to have meaning. He needs even more to understand exactly what is going on. Or else it’s just abuse.”

His head flopped back onto the pillow. Still, the weight of his words remained.

James let himself fall back onto the floor. “Tell me something,” James said, half to the ceiling and half to Lafayette. “How the _hell_ did one man manage to get so many people in a wreck over his state of mind?”

Lafayette burst out laughing. Overly loud before he grabbed the pillow and shoved his face into it. Midway through his hysterical chuckles, he screamed. Just for a couple of seconds. James blinked.

“He’s not the worst I know,” he said, lifting his head and looking remarkably put together for a man who was so frustrated that he ended up screaming into a pillow like a teenage girl. “Another friend of mine had _five_ people caught up in a wreck over him, and has been doing so for years without any sign of change.”

He ran a shaking hand over his hair. “I seem to be drawn to people like that.”

“Wait,” James frowned. He sat up, and turned around. “Are you talking about _Hamilton_?”

“How do you know Alexandre?” Lafayette demanded. Then he paused, and waved a hand. “There is Thomas and Alexandre’s shared case, of course, but that doesn’t explain how you could immediately guess—”

“I was in the same debate club with him for the first year of college,” James said dryly. “I was also at Columbia when he made that post.”

Lafayette blinked. He opened his mouth and closed it. Then he ducked his head, a laugh wresting out of his throat. He muttered something incomprehensible in French.

“Hi,” he said, looking out at James through the mess of his hair. “I’m Gilbert Lafayette. We should’ve met ten years ago.”

James’s nerves were still raw, practically open sores on every part of his body. But then Lafayette stuck out his hand and the situation became far too ridiculous to bear. James’s lips twitched, and he shook his head as laughter wreaked through him.

It felt warm.

“I’m James Madison,” he said. He also stuck out his hand, and they shook without touching and with practically two feet of distance between their fingertips. Lafayette started giggling, slapping his hand over his mouth. James’s heart lurched in his chest.

“Hey,” he said, mouth a little dry. “Has anyone told you that you kind of look like Thomas?”

Falling again face-down onto the bed, Lafayette kicked up his legs, swinging them back and forth. “Only every time when we’re in the same space together,” he said, dry. Then he ducked his head down, shoulders shaking as another few giggles escaped him.

“Did Thomas ever told you how we met?”

Shifting backwards until his back was leaning against the nightstand, James raised an eyebrow. “You’re talking about _Thomas_ ,” he pointed out, because the man talked less _about_ people than _to_ them. Unless it was to complain.

“True,” Lafayette jabbed a finger in James’s direction. He wriggled around the bed like an overlarge kitten – he was even more restless than Thomas, and James wouldn’t have thought that _possible_ – before he scrambled to sit up, crossing his legs. His hand dragged over his hair, and he pulled a face when it tugged at the strands.

“So I met Thomas in Paris when he was studying there,” Lafayette said. “My grandmother donated frequently to his university, and so one day I was walking around the library and then I saw him. And it was kind of like…” His fingers tapped the air for a moment as he frowned. “Imagine being thirteen, awkward and gangly, and being confronted with an image of how you would look like when puberty got done with you. Except it’s not an image. It’s a _person_ — why are you laughing?”

 _Thirteen_. Lafayette had been thirteen to Thomas’s nineteen. And here James was, thinking that they… He slapped his hand over his face, shoulders shaking even further with helpless laughter. Christ.

He dragged his hand over his face, forcing himself to stop. “Nothing,” he said. When Lafayette squinted at him, he repeated, “It’s nothing. Keep going.”

There should have been limits. But there weren’t any, and now Thomas had slipped out of his hands and James didn’t bring himself to reach out for him. To make him come back. Not that he would; not when he had forsworn his right to.

His head dropped backwards as he watched Lafayette from beneath his heavy, tired lashes. He looked like Thomas, certainly, but the six years’ gap between them was pretty obvious when one looked. The lines beside Lafayette’s eyes weren’t nearly as deep, his jaw was softer, and his face and nose were longer. He held himself in a completely different way.

They continued talking about Thomas until midnight. Then Lafayette started talking about Hamilton. At some point, they fell asleep: Lafayette on the floor, at his own insistence, hogging all the extra blankets they had requested from reception, at James’s; and James on the bed.

James woke up on Saturday morning to a splitting headache, an incoming cold, and a text message:

_I’m at Monticello. Sorry if you worried._

Lafayette’s eyes were on him as he typed back: _Take care of yourself_.

Thomas didn’t reply.

***

 _April 8, Friday_  
  
“Blink.”

Alexander’s eyelashes closed slowly, and opened again. 

The grey fog was enveloping his head again. It stole away time. Burr had cuffed his hands behind his back, and his arms were surely straining; the ropes tying his legs together pressed against his ankles; his knees had been sore this morning. The fog stole away all of that, too. 

He breathed. The wall was a light green colour. He had been trying to find a name for the shade for the past three days. He hadn’t succeeded; that was okay. It was a nice colour. There was a very small crack at his upper left. He never did remember to see if it extended further beyond his line of vision.

“Blink.”

Close, open. Exhale. Burr was behind him, a solid presence. He was drinking. Alexander could guess what it was. He didn’t. Ice clinked against glass. He would count the seconds in between each clinking but there was no time in this place. Instead, all he had was a vague notion that it was like music. Just a little bit.

Burr’s hand in his hair. Burr’s fingers sliding across his cheek. Alexander stifled a shiver; he had promised to be good, hadn’t he? He wanted be good. Burr’s nails caught an inch of skin on his throat. He pinched. Alexander exhaled, slow and steady. He didn’t move.

“Good boy,” Burr murmured in his ear. His breath was so warm in the air-conditioned room. Alexander was fully dressed but he hadn’t moved since he first went to his knees. Burr nosed his hair, practically nuzzled it/p>

Thumb over his mouth. Inhale. It slipped in, nail grazing over his teeth, edging close to his gums. Exhale. 

“Blink.”

Harder now to open his eyes. Alexander was floating. It felt really nice. Burr’s hand closed over his throat, palm pressing against his windpipe. Pressure. Still, it was easy. Inhale, exhale. Easy.

Teeth grazing the curve of his ear. 

“Red.”

Alexander still didn’t move. Burr tightened his grip over his throat, dragged his head back. Upside down Burr looked a little strange. Because of the fog, too. His eyelashes fluttered. Burr traced the air above them. Alexander let out a sigh, long and shuddering, and finally he closed his eyes.

“Master,” he breathed.

“That was beautiful, boy,” Burr said. Another praise. Alexander’s lips parted as he drank down the echoes of Burr’s voice in the air, let it fill the parched emptiness inside his chest. His breath was stuttering again. 

Then Burr stopped touching him. Alexander whined before he could stop himself. “Shhh,” Burr soothed, nosing his hair again. His hands stroked over Alexander’s calves. The ropes loosened. _Click_. The cuffs were gone too. Leather and rough hemp slid away from his skin. The fog started to go, too.

“Come up here,” Burr said. His arms hooked under Alexander’s armpit. Alexander tried to help, but he was probably only deadweight as Burr lifted him up to the couch. He allowed Alexander to lie on his thighs, and Alexander nuzzled them in wordless thanks. He didn’t think he could manage words right now. Burr’s hand stroking through his hair felt really, really good. He didn’t think anything other than pain could feel this good.

“How are you feeling?”

Alexander tried to answer. All that came out of him was an incoherent, wordless sound, mostly ‘n’ and very long. Burr’s breath huffed over his cheek. Then he did something _very_ strange: he kissed the top of Alexander’s head.

“Eh?” He tried to lift his head up.

“Rest,” Burr said, nudging him back down again. Alexander went willingly. Okay, that was weird, but nothing to worry about. He made that stupid sound again when Burr took his wrists and started to rub them, thumbs stroking lightly over the aching spots. He kicked up his legs, just a little.

“Patience,” Burr said. He continued paying attention to Alexander’s wrists instead of ankles. Alexander pouted. Then he realised that he was face down and so Burr couldn’t see anything. He nosed Burr’s thigh instead, trying to move upwards.

Burr dropped his hands. Fingers in Alexander’s hair, tugging in a very annoying way – not enough to be painful, yet definitely hard enough to be felt.

“Stop being a brat,” Burr said. “I just said that you were good.”

“But,” Alexander whined, behaving exactly like a brat. He nudged against Burr’s hand, trying to lift his head. For some reason, Burr allowed him- oh, okay, so it was just to see him roll his eyes. Alexander moved his hands, reaching out. Burr batted them away and that wasn’t even _painful_.

“You’re annoying,” he said, and flopped back onto Burr’s lap.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Burr drawled in reply. He went back to rubbing the aches out of Alexander’s wrists. Alexander let him, shifting until it was his cheek resting on muscle instead of his nose. Burr’s movements were so regular and so rhythmic that he almost fell asleep.

Then there was a nudge on his shoulder. “Sit up,” Burr said. Alexander curved his spine, caterpillar-like as he sat back on his haunches. When Burr made a twirling motion in the air, he turned around, and let himself fall again until he felt Burr’s thin, firm chest against his back. The lash marks from three days ago had long healed, but he rubbed a little anyway.

“Do you actually _like_ misbehaving, or are you still under the delusion that I’ll punish you with pain?” Burr asked, tone arch.

“Mean,” Alexander complained. He lifted his ankle obligingly when Burr crooked his finger again, resting it on Burr’s knee as Burr dug his fingers in. He hissed at the sudden pins and needles exploding around his ankle, but subsided when Burr tugged on his hair as a silent order. 

The other side was more awkward until Burr slipped his fingers beneath the cushions and did _something_ to make the back of the couch just… fall backwards. Alexander blinked, opening his mouth – he had never known those things could _do_ that – but Burr rubbed his knuckles in circles around his ankles and that shut him up. Honestly, the stinging, prickling pain was rushing up to his crotch, coiling heat in his cock and he knew he was getting hard.

But it was too nice to stay here, lying against Burr, so he didn’t mention it.

“So,” Burr said. His fingers brushed lightly over Alexander’s knees. “Are you going to start limping around tomorrow?”

“Eh,” Alexander said. The skin on the back of his feet still carried imprints of the carpet’s threads, so he poked it a little. It didn’t hurt anymore, just a sore ache from overuse. He stretched out one leg, and the bent it again. His knee cracked like an old man’s.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You are worse than a _child_ ,” Burr muttered. He gripped Alexander’s knees with both hands, pressing hard until his fingertips were to the bone. Alexander yelped, and then dropped his head back as the tension in the joint suddenly snapped and released. Blood flowed in, stinging all over again, and Alexander writhed even though he could practically feel Burr rolling his eyes again.

“There,” Burr said after a while. “Do that again.”

Alexander obeyed. He wasn’t creaking like an old man anymore. He rolled his shoulders, and then his arms. He kneaded at his own calves. Everything felt pretty okay. Burr’s version of okay, even.

“When did you get such good massage skills?” he asked, craning his head back to look at Burr.

Burr raised a slow eyebrow. “Is that really the information you want from me?” he asked.

Right. Information. Christ, Alexander had almost forgotten why he was doing this. For the past three days, he was just focused on _doing_ instead of… instead of the end goal. He bit his lip, and pulled away from Burr. 

An arm wrapped around his waist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Aren’t I supposed to kneel while asking?” Alexander asked, confused.

“Don’t go undoing all of my hard work,” Burr grumbled at him. “Kneel on the couch of you have to.”

That didn’t make sense. Burr was all about rules and routines and procedures – every step outlined. Alexander was only allowed to ask for something if he was in a certain position. If his question was too pressing for him to wait, he was to use his safeword. He never used his safeword; never used that Get Out of Jail Free card.

Never mind. He shifted on the couch, turning around again and folding his legs underneath him. The cushions were so soft that it was hard to balance. He tottered from side to side for a moment before Burr sighed, sounding aggrieved, and then pulled the couch’s back upright again. Alexander gripped onto the cotton upholstery.

“Okay, uhm,” he said. He looked down at his hands. “You said something some time back that got me really curious, so… That’s the information I want.”

“I’ve said a lot of things,” Burr replied, tone mild. “You have to be more specific.”

Alexander took a breath. Here went nothing. 

“’Madison won’t let him’,” he whispered. “You said that about Jefferson. I’m curious what that means.”

Slowly, he lifted his eyes and met Burr’s. He watched as the warmth in them disappeared. He could practically hear the shutters slamming back down. He stifled a flinch. Swallowed.

“What does that mean?”

“Ah,” Burr said. His hand, draped over the couch’s back, twitched. Curled in and then spread out again, tension in every tendon as it hovered above the cloth. He wasn’t looking at Alexander; he was staring at that crack in the wall.

Then he stood up. His spine was so straight. When he bent to pick up his empty glass from the table, his back looked like it was going to break. Alexander was holding his breath.

“What I meant,” Burr said, his back to Alexander, “is that Jefferson is Madison’s sub. That’s all.”

And just like that, he walked out of the room. The door didn’t slam behind him. The quiet _thud_ sounded like shattering glass anyway. Alexander closed his eyes. He fell forward until he buried his face into the cushions.  
_  
_ Back in January, Burr had said: _That’s why ‘conflict of interests’ is an actual term_. If the people involved in a case were discovered to actually have a vested interest… Well, even if there weren’t legal ramifications, Jefferson was a public figure. A civil servant. Held up to a higher standard than other lawyers because he represented specifically New York and generally the country. 

He could use this. Burr delivered straight into his hands a technique to retrieve his soul. Once he drew it out…

Once upon a time, there had been a demon on the crossroad. Alexander would meet it, and walk straight into hell.

It was better that Burr didn’t know. Better the shutters than the flames. Better this way.

Alexander thought his heart was gone long ago, shattered at his own feet. But here it was, in his chest, tearing itself apart all over again. But now he knew its weight in his hand; knew the way it felt as it was torn; knew the heat of the blood pouring over his fingers. 

The irony was so thick he was choking on it.

He didn’t move for a long time.

***

 _April 8, Friday_  
  
Spring winds in Virginia carried the scent of old country songs and even older trees. Thomas tipped his head back against the headrest of his seat, feeling the cool air on his face as he sped down the highway. He had rented a convertible and pulled the top down by habit, and it wasn’t until he was at Birnam Wood – halfway to his destination – that it occurred to him that maybe he shouldn’t.

His estate loomed in the distance. Fruit trees, tobacco bushes, some parts with wheat. He swerved off of the highway into the private roads. There were trucks parked in front of Monticello’s gates, people in wifebeaters and baseball caps chatting together. Thomas made a turn, heading up the small hill with the side gate. He stopped the car and swung out of it without unlocking the door. 

“Mr Jefferson!” he heard someone yell, clearly shocked. “We didn’t know that you were coming back for a visit.”

Turning, Thomas tried to smile even though he wasn’t sure they could see it. “I’m not here for an inspection,” he replied, raising his voice so that they could hear him below. “Pretend that I’m not here at all.” He splayed his hand on top of the palm reader. It beeped, and the gate swung open.

There were only two prints other than his own for this gate: Martha’s, and Madison’s. 

He swung back into the car and drove down the road. Despite his words, the news that he was back would spread through the estate soon enough. But he wasn’t here to deal with that. He never really cared about what happened to this place after Martha’s death, really; he’d left it behind along with John Wayles’s Forest. Madison was probably more careful with his own Montpelier. He usually took so much more care with everything than Thomas did.

Reaching over to the passenger seat, he pulled open the duffel he’d packed while Madison was still asleep. He grabbed the first silk he could touch, wrapping the tie around his hand as he turned away from the main building towards the smaller cottage. The wheels of the rental rattled over the cobblestone road. He pulled it over to the side and stepped out, locking the car and tossing the key back into the seat without pulling the top back up. 

No one would come to interrupt him while he was here. They knew better.

Despite the years and the wear from rain and winds, Martha’s words were still there on the wall: _Honeymoon Lodge_. He touched the blocky letters, tracing every single letter. The stone was cold. He pushed open the door – it was never locked while he was away – and tossed his bag onto the closest table he could see. Then he turned away from the cottage and its thousands of memories for the gardens behind it.

Martha’s gardens. She had roses planted there in a dozen colours: all shades of red and pink, a few white, a few yellow, and even one or two bushes of orange roses and one striking purple-black one. Right before she died, she had been trying to breed some true-blue roses out of mixing the white and the black. The nursery where she had done that work had been torn down four years ago, but the plantation’s workers had done a pretty decent job keeping up the gardens themselves. 

The flowers were blooming, and Thomas could hear the soft buzzing of bees. A butterfly winged past him to land on a rose: a Monarch, wings folded and trembling in the soft breeze. Thomas stared at it for a long time. If Martha were here, beside him, she would have moved forward on tiptoes to try to nudge it to land on her fingers. 

He moved on; walked further in.

The white obelisk rose up high in the centre of the gardens, taller than the bushes at five feet. Right at eye-level, in heavy black letters:

_In the memory of_  
_Martha Wayles Jefferson_  
_Born 19 October 1981_  
_Torn from her husband on 9 July 2011_  


Thomas stood in front of it. When he reached out, he realised that he still had Madison’s tie wrapped around his left hand – the striped black and grey thing dull against his skin. He unwound it, stared at it, and wrapped it around his right hand. Then he reached behind his neck and unhooked the silver chair. Martha’s wedding band fell into his hand, glinting in the soft sunlight. The chain went into his pocket, and the ring onto his left finger.

Then he traced the words with his left hand, and then his right. He closed his eyes and fell to his knees. The grass yielded beneath his weight. His head fell forward, thudding hard against the white marble. He kept his eyes open.

“Hi, honey,” he whispered to the marble. “I’m home. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much.” 

The same words every single time he came to visit. It never felt rote.

“How is everything up there?” he asked. “Have you been bored? Are you spending time with your Papa? Are you still exchanging embarrassing stories about me with my Mom and Dad?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. His throat was closing up; his eyes were burning. He dragged oxygen into his lungs.

“Or have you picked up a new hobby? There must be so many interesting people up there, and you’ve always been able to make friends wherever you go.” Tears slipped down his cheeks. He ignored them. “I really hope you’re not bored. I know how much you hate that. You agreed to marry me because I never managed to bore you, after all.”

Leaning back, Thomas scrubbed at his eyes. He wiped the tears away with Madison’s tie, letting the liquid soak into the silk. He was probably staining it, ruining it beyond repair. He pressed his knuckles against his lips, mouthing at the salt, wanting and wanting so badly for broad shoulders and thick arms to wrap around him.

Slowly, he shoved the urge down. He lifted his head. His vision was still blurred by tears, but he didn’t need to see to trace the fingertips of his left hand over the inscription right below the dates:

_Nay, if even in the house of Hades the dead forget their dead,_  
_Yet will I even there be mindful of my dear comrade_

“Do you remember the first time we talked to each other properly?” Thomas asked the stone. “Months in the same Classics class, and you finally got tired of hearing me mutter about the crappy translation of _The Iliad_ that we were studying.” His lips twitched upwards into a small, helpless smile. “You said that I should translate it from the Greek if I could do it better; even gave me a passage. Briseis’s lament, remember? You always loved that part so much. _Patroclus, dear to my heart, when I left this hut you were alive, and now alas I return, prince among men, to find you a corpse._ ” The Greek came familiar to his tongue even though it had been years since he spoke the words out loud. 

“You always said that you loved that part because it showed how terribly the war had treated Briseis, because she mourned sincerely for the one man who had shown her kindness even though he didn’t save her. But I’ve always liked Achilles’s lament better.” He lifted his trembling hand to his mouth again. Madison’s scent had never been on the cloth, but it was locked in his lungs, his mind.

“Maybe I should have known then.” 

Shifting himself on the grass, he leaned against the obelisk. Like this, he could see only stone in front of him. But he didn’t need anything else.

“Why did you go so suddenly?” His shoulders shuddered hard, and he squeezed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to push away the memories of that horrible morning. “You were there, and then you weren’t. The doctors told me that it was a rare complication. ‘Dead-in-bed syndrome,’ they said.” A laugh escaped him, high-pitched and hysterical. “That doesn’t explain anything. I always thought that having a name for something means that it was known, but… that doesn’t explain anything, Martha. Why was it you? Why did it have to be _you_?”

The chill of the stone was seeping through his clothes to touch his skin and sink into his bones. Thomas forced his eyes open, and he stared up to the skies. There were grey clouds approaching. Spring in Virginia always brought the rain.

“I’ve never figured an answer to that,” he murmured. “Nothing seems enough. Coincidence. Bad luck. Fate. None of that is logical, Martha. None of that makes sense.”

Another laugh wrestled out of him. His lungs ached with the sound. “Nothing makes sense, now,” he said.

Thomas ran a hand shakily over his face. He drew his legs up, and pressed his forehead against his knees. “The first time you stood here, the day after our wedding, do you remember?” he asked both stone and sky. 

“Monticello wasn’t finished yet, but the cottage and garden were; I had made sure of that. You said they were your favourite parts. The snowstorm had stopped, but everything was still blanketed. You dragged me out of the cottage to stand in the middle of the garden. Your laughter was so bright, like music, and as you danced snowflakes fell onto your hair. When I played the violin for you, you kissed me and you called me your prince.”

Martha would have laughed at him for being so maudlin, if she were here. Or she would have taken his face with both of her small hands and kissed him. She would have tugged on his hair and teasingly called him a prince again, because he made a fairytale for her, with this garden and the cottage and Monticello itself.

“Everything used to be so simple when you were alive,” he whispered. The wind was picking up, whipping his voice away until he could barely hear it. But his words were never meant for him anyway. “There were lines drawn in the sand, separating the good from the bad. And there you were. You looked at me, you loved me, and you thought me good, so I was always standing on the side of the good guys. Even though I might make mistakes, even though I might make you upset, you would forgive me. You would listen to my reasons and say they were good reasons, and I could believe you.” 

His nails slid down the marble. They made no sound. Thomas opened his eyes and stared at the bare, overwhelming expanse of white.

“Now I can’t, Martha,” he said. “I can’t. My head is a mess and I don’t understand anything, and you’re not here to help me set everything to rights again.”

Angelica’s words unfurled inside him: _I’ll stop saying her name like that when you stop using her as an excuse for all that you do_. Thomas’s shoulders shook again, because he knew they were true. He didn’t want them to be true, but they were true. 

“Tell me what to do,” he murmured, resting his temple against the obelisk again. “Tell me what to do.”

She couldn’t. She was dead. She had been for five years. It should be long enough for Thomas to rebuild the ruins her death made of his insides. But he had never tried. 

He had been fifteen when he had first met Martha and begun to rearrange his world according to the reflection of himself he saw in her eyes. She loved him, and if she loved him, then there was nothing wrong he could do. They were protagonists in the fairytale he made the world into with his ideals, and nothing they ever did could be wrong or inexcusable.

Twenty years later, he was still holding onto those ideas. His shoulders shook again.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Thomas looked up at the skies. The grey clouds were approaching. He stood up even before he knew what he was doing, and headed back for his rental car. He took his keys and pulled up the top. His body seemed to be moving without his consent. He wanted to stay there next to Martha, because it didn’t matter to him if the car was damaged. He could always buy the company another one; a newer and better model, even.

But maybe that was the problem.

His eyes turned towards the garden, looking at it all over again. Then he headed inside. He didn’t head for the tomb, but walked around it. There were roses planted everywhere, mixed with oak and dogwood trees. Leaves shivered as the winds picked up. Then he stopped.

Here, near the fence which separated the cottage and its garden from the main estate, was a little square, no more than ten feet in length and in width. The white paint that Martha had insisted to be laid down around the borders had faded, but Thomas could still see the traces of it. Here was where Martha had planted the rhododendrons and foxglvoes and larkspurs, the vibrant colours set off by the oleanders and water hemlocks.

Martha had these flowers grow in a specific demarcated area because they were poisonous. She had said: _if we have children and they start walking around, we’ll fence off this area so they don’t eat the flowers_. She had told him: _they are beautiful, but mixing everything together is a bad idea_. When he had protested – surely the soft pastels of the roses would be so much more beautiful when matched with the bright starkness of the foxgloves and larkspurs – she had laughed: _not everything can be put together to make a full picture, Tom. Sometimes you have to separate things because it just makes more sense that way_.

Thomas blinked. He headed back to the cottage, practically running. He grabbed his notebook, and rushed back towards the square of poisonous flowers. He dropped to his knees, flipped open the pages. He’d forgotten a pen, and ran back to the house to grab one. Then he went back again.

His hand trembled as he separated the first blank page he saw into five different columns. It was a little awkward to write with the tie still around his hand, but he ignored that.

Column one: _want_ ; two: _sexuality_ ; three: _BDSM_ ; four: _money_ ; fifth, the one that consolidated all of them: _power._ Then he drew the rows. _Madison_ first, then _Sally_ , then _the bar_. He hesitated and wrote, for the very last one, _Sands/Weeks_.

The notebook was far too small for this.

Just as he ducked inside the cottage, lightning crackled and it started to pour. Thomas barely noticed it aside from slamming the windows shut as he headed for the storeroom. He kept some of his tracing paper from when he was still designing Monticello somewhere around here. He found a couple of rolls – still had around ten left – and he took them out. He paused at the doorway, gaze falling to the violin, and he grabbed that and dumped it onto the coffee table near the entrance, beside his duffel.

Then he put the tracing paper onto the kitchen table. Weighed it down with whatever utensils he could find. He climbed onto the table and copied the columns and rows he’d written on his notebook. His hands were still shaking.

Separating things because it made more sense. That didn’t work in this case, not really, but now he remembered: when he was first designing Monticello, he separated each section of the house, designing each room, then each wing, before putting the finishing touches on the entire building. Of course, his first step had been to decide how he wanted the entire house to look like, but he could skip that step. He had to, now, because he knew he had been stuck on that first step for twenty years.

Layer by layer.

Was this still asking Martha for answers? Was this another sign of his sheer dependence on her? Thomas didn’t know. He knew he should start off on a completely clean slate, but he used parts of the demolished building to build Monticello. Repurposed them for his own use. That should be okay, right?

His pen hovered over _sexuality_. Thomas closed his eyes. He split the column into two, and wrote _dependence_ on the left side. 

When the estate’s head overseer called him, hours later, Thomas had covered all ten pieces of tracing paper in his handwriting and had moved on to writing on the table itself with a marker he found in his old supplies. He still wasn’t done, but now he could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Even if it was a train, it would be one he _understood_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historians really suspect Martha Jefferson to have had type one diabetes. Because she and Thomas don’t have kids in this ‘verse, she died of ‘dead-in-bed’ syndrome, which also really exists. The inscription on her tombstone is also historically accurate. She also historically loved gardening, though it was Jefferson who was obsessive about farming practices. All of the plants said to be poisonous are also poisonous. The research I did for this fic is frankly ridiculous.
> 
> In my head, Ben/Charles Adams, Jefferson, and Lafayette are all played by Daveed Diggs, albeit in different ages of his life. Because that’s totally possible, yep. Look, this is fic; it’ll never be filmed. Let me have my three Daveeds.
> 
> Book III ends next chapter. There’s still one more climax. I’m pretty sure you all know what it is by now.


	21. show me where the ammunition is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can justify any action if you try hard enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Second scene: voyeurism, a POV character doing something really terrible in terms of ethics, logic, and just honestly everything (is that still valid as a warning given this entire fic???). Third scene: panic attack, and a rape victim confronting his rapist while being in close, intimate contact with him. And forgiving him.

_April 11, Monday_

“The defence calls for its first witness. Ms Ezrine Weeks, please approach the stand.”

Her clothing was extremely muted today: a charcoal grey pantsuit and white blouse with dull shoes with chunky heels. Her back was straight as if she had replaced her spine with a steel beam. As she swore to not lie, her face was so expressionless than it seemed like a doll’s, made of delicate, ebony ceramic.

Franklin turned towards him. Aaron nodded, standing up. He didn’t look at Hamilton; shelved away his thoughts about the man’s sheer stillness and how well he was behaving. Instead, he glanced towards Jefferson, taking in the elbows on the desk, the boredom writ over his face, and the narrowed eyes. Whatever Hamilton planned to do with the information Aaron gave him was none of his business. 

Fixing his eyes on Ezrine, he inclined his head. “Ms Weeks,” he greeted. “You are Mr Weeks’s sister, correct?”

Her eyebrow twitched; the barest hint of her impatience towards the inane question. But she said, “Yes,” without any inflection in her voice.

“How far apart are the two of you in years?”

“I am ten years older,” Ezrine said. Her eyes darted towards her brother, and there was the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. If Aaron didn’t know her at all, the gesture would be sweet. “Our parents always called him their miracle baby.”

Nodding again, he took a step towards the witness stand. “Will you tell us about your parents?”

“Which parts?” she threw back.

“Whatever you find necessary for the court to know,” Aaron said. Out of the corner of his eyes, he found a few jurors sit up straighter. He stifled a smile.

Ezrine folded her hands on top of the witness stand, leaning forward slightly. “Our parents loved us both greatly, and encouraged us along the path of whatever we wanted to do.” She gave Aaron a thin smile. “When I told my father that I wished to take over his company, he didn’t dismiss the notion immediately even though I was only eleven at the time. When they died when I was twenty-five and Levi was fifteen – an unfortunately airplane crash – I decided to take on the same philosophy with Levi.” 

Aaron cocked his head. “Will you elaborate on that?”

“Certainly,” Ezrine shrugged. “I encouraged him. I allowed him to explore the multitude of options that are available to him. I tried to guide him without excessively restricting his actions.”

“Some would say that BDSM is an excessive course of self-exploration,” Aaron commented mildly. “One that should be curtailed.”

Snorting, Ezrine tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Those people are simply too close-minded,” she said, voice tart. “I’m not a fool, Mr Burr. When he first told me what he was doing, I did as much research as I could. It’s not to my tastes, but I do understand the conventions and the urges of the community intimately.”

“From what Levi told you?”

“Only partly from Levi himself,” Ezrine said. “I questioned others. I do not think the identity of those others are relevant to the case.”

“They’re not,” Aaron agreed. Behind him, he could practically hear the air shift as Hamilton jerked. He ignored him again. “Please tell us about Mr Weeks’s financial situation instead.”

Pause. Then Ezrine straightened. Her eyes scanned the jury, then Franklin, before she spoke. “Levi had a trust fund set up by my parents. The sum was ten million.” There were a couple of sharp intakes of breath. “He received a regular allowance from the fund every month from age fifteen to twenty-one; he used to give the money to me so I could invest it for him, and I would give him his allowance separately. At his twenty-first birthday, Levi received the full sum of money, including the returns for the investments I made on his behalf.”

“And how much is that?”

“Thirteen million and four hundred thousand,” Ezrine said, voice flat.

“That’s a rather huge sum,” Aaron said. He might be a trust fund child himself, but over thirteen million all at once was still ridiculously huge, especially at twenty-one. “Yet all of that disappeared in only four years.”

“Levi has a habit of dabbling with investments,” Ezrine said, spreading her hands out. “He simply doesn’t have the flair for it like I do.”

“There are no records of him buying bonds or stocks,” Aaron said, keeping his voice mild. “He doesn’t have a broker.”

“Most of his investments are in projects started up by his friends,” Ezrine said. “He majored in Business for a semester; he met plenty of people who had good ideas that just needed capital. He provided the capital, but the ideas didn’t take off.”

“Are there records of these private investments?”

Ezrine’s lips curved up into a sharp smirk. “They should be in his apartment,” she drawled. “I’m sure he would be able to find them for you if the police ever allow him to go back there.”

Jefferson pushed away from his desk. He crossed his arms, then his ankles, and made a motion like he was barely resisting rolling his eyes. His cobalt blue suit didn’t match with the dull black and grey tie he wore. Aaron smiled vaguely in his direction.

“Do you know what your brother does in Los Angeles, San Jose, Reno, and Macau, Ms Weeks?” he asked.

For the first time since questioning began, Ezrine faltered. Aaron blinked; he knew the answers that Ezrine was supposed to give, the ones she wrote down in her large, looping handwriting when they were going through her testimony in her office last week. This shouldn’t be throwing her off.

“My brother likes to invest in his friends’ ideas,” she said softly, words according to script. “When I asked him why he preferred that to investing in actual, established companies, he said that he preferred the risk. The intimacy.” Out of the corner of his eyes, Aaron saw Jefferson’s fingers stop in the middle of twirling his pen. He scribbled down something.

“These are habits, I think, that make for a good gambler,” she said, eyes downcast. _Oh_ , so that was what her hesitation was for: to complete the image of an adoring sister admitting to her brother’s flaws.

Quite a performance.

“Detective Mulligan stated in his testimony that no one recognised Mr Weeks in the casinos of those places,” Aaron said.

Ezrine lifted her shoulders. “My brother isn’t very good at calling attention to himself,” she said, just a little dry. “He most likely became part of the crowd, and…”

She sighed, and dragged a hand through her perfectly-coiffed hair, dishevelling it as she shook her head. “When he first told me that he wanted to try _that_ particular brand of investment, I told him to…” she bit her lip. “I told him to use a fake name. So that I wouldn’t be implicated if he ran up debt. I also told him to not run up debts; to give himself an upper spending limit for the day and to stop when it ran out.”

“Did he listen to you?” Aaron asked.

“Well, I’ve never been disturbed by any of his creditors,” Ezrine said. She looked down at her hands. “He almost always listens to me, anyway.”

An adoring older sister and an obedient younger brother; practically picture perfect. Aaron paused for a few moments to allow the image to sink into the jurors’ heads. 

“Only two more questions from the defence, Ms Weeks,” Aaron said. He looked straight into her eyes. “Have there been any instances in recent years whereby you withheld money from Mr Weeks?” 

“A few times,” Ezrine nodded. “The first when his trust fund ran out. All the times afterwards when he spent too much. But… but I’ve never…” She chewed on her lip for a few moments. “I always pay for his rent and make sure that he has enough money for food, clothes, and transport. I only restrict luxuries. Anything more would not only be excessive, but inhumane.”

“So Mr Weeks was never in a truly dire financial situation?” Aaron stated.

“Objection,” Jefferson drawled. He got to his feet as if the very act of standing was exhausting. He leaned forward with his hands on the table. “The defence is leading the witness.”

Franklin’s eyebrows were raised, and his gaze flickered between Jefferson and Aaron. Aaron genuinely could not tell whether the expression was aimed towards him or Jefferson.

“Sustained,” Franklin said. “Rephrase your question, Counsellor.”

Aaron nodded. As Jefferson took his seat – lazily, languidly, in a way Aaron had never seen from him before – he looked at Ezrine again.

“Has Mr Weeks given you any signs that he is in desperate financial straits?”

Ezrine shook her head. “No,” she said. 

“Are you sure about that?” Aaron pressed.

“Absolutely,” Ezrine jutted her chin out. With Jefferson’s interference, the script was now useless – that was her genuine reaction. “I see him every day, and I’ve known him all of my life. He knows that he can tell me anything. Nothing is hidden between us. My answer doesn’t change.”

Nodding, Aaron allowed the brief silver of a smile to cross his face. “I see. Last question, Ms Weeks: what do you think happened on the night of January 1st, 2016?”

Ezrine closed her eyes. Her hands on the edge of the stand tightened, knuckles whitening. “An accident,” she whispered. “A terrible, horrible accident.”

“Thank you,” Aaron told her sincerely. “No more questions.” He returned back to his seat. He continued to ignore Hamilton beside him.

All eyes in the courtroom were turned towards Jefferson, because now it was the prosecution’s turn to cross-examine the witness. Jefferson didn’t seem to notice the scrutiny: he continued to stare into space, twirling his pen in his hand. It was, Aaron noted, a very cheap pen; one of those that could be bought in packs of a dozen for a couple of dollars.

Then Jefferson placed his hands flat on the prosecution’s desk. He stood up without flourish. His pen clattered, loud in the courtroom, as he dropped it and walked towards Ezrine. There was a deliberate tension in his every step that made it almost impossible to look away from him.

Aaron had never seen the man like this during the entire trial.

“Ms Weeks,” Jefferson started. “During Counsellor Burr’s testimony, you stated four things. I will just like to clarify them with you. Do I have your permission?”

“Yes,” Ezrine said, brows creasing.

“Firstly, you stated that, after your brother was orphaned at fifteen, you were in charge of his care, and you do not believe in restricting his actions or interests excessively. Secondly, he had a trust fund that brought him thirteen million and three hundred dollars,” he didn’t put any emphasis whatsoever on the number, “which he spent in its entirety in four years. Thirdly, you believe that he spent that money on private investments with his friends, and also through gambling. Lastly, you believe that his interest in BDSM is part of his self-exploration.” He paused.

“Am I correct in all points?”

Ezrine nodded. Her frown deepened. “I don’t see the point of this questioning,” she said pointedly.

“Please indulge me, Ms Weeks,” Jefferson said. He didn’t smile. “I had to confirm what you said in order to make sure that I had not misheard you in any way. That is, after all, a possible danger.”

That wasn’t directed to Ezrine. Jefferson was looking straight at the jury. Aaron’s hand started to close into a fist. He hid it underneath his desk.

“On the first point,” Jefferson said. “What is your definition of ‘excessively?”

“Pardon me?” Ezrine blinked, thrown. Aaron didn’t blame her. The list of possible questions that he – and Hamilton – had predicted Jefferson to ask didn’t include this. Jefferson always seemed to believe himself to be above quibbling about definitions. 

“What is your definition of ‘excessively’?” Jefferson repeated. “Based on your answers to Mr Burr’s cross-examination, it does not include: restricting his expenditure, stopping him from making unwise decisions regarding his investments, curtailing his gambling, or preventing him from engaging in possibly unsafe sexual acts. What _is_ included in your definition of ‘excessively’?”

“Objection!” Hamilton jumped up before Aaron could. “The prosecution is mischaracterising the witness’s testimony!”

Jefferson didn’t look at Franklin. His eyes didn’t leave Ezrine’s face at all. 

Franklin said, “Overruled.”

Hamilton’s eyes were wide. He opened and closed his mouth several times. He sat down, mutiny written all over his face.

“He didn’t mischaracterise,” Aaron murmured under his breath; the first words he said to Hamilton since they entered the courtroom. “He phrased the question such that perspective flipped around. Neglectful and careless instead of indulgent and accepting. They’re two sides of the same coin.”

All he received was a quiet hiss, but Aaron understood what Hamilton meant. Before the trial started, Aaron had told Madison he wanted a _proper opponent_ in court. He’d thought that Madison had kept his word. Now he knew that he had been very, very wrong.

For the first time since the trial began, Aaron understood exactly how Jefferson took what Henry Knox had called an ‘open-shut case’ and turned it completely on its head. What the _hell_ had happened to the man since the last court session?

Actually, where _was_ Madison?

“Please answer Mr Jefferson’s question, Ms Weeks,” Franklin said. Aaron realised that Ezrine had been silent for a couple of minutes. 

_Dammit_.

“I,” Ezrine started. She licked her lips. She was staring down at her nails. Over at the defendant’s stand, Levi’s hands were starting to shake. 

“Excessive is,” she stopped again. “It is when he is actively harming himself, or others, in ways that I cannot… I cannot rescue him from.”

“You do not believe that wasting his trust fund – which is, I presume, supposed to last him throughout his life – or gaining a gambling addiction is _active harm_?” Jefferson asked, tone mild.

“Objection!” Hamilton stood up again. The defence desk rattled with the force of his slam. “The prosecution is assuming facts not in evidence!”

This time, Franklin didn’t even turn to look at him as he said, “Overruled.”

As Hamilton sat back down, Burr grabbed his arm. He squeezed it hard, sinking his nails into skin past Hamilton’s expensive jacket and shirt. “ _Stop_ ,” he hissed into his co-counsel’s ear. “He’s not breaking any of the rules.”

Hamilton shook his head. His eyes were wild with a strange desperation that had Aaron’s breath catching in his throat. “But he is _assuming_ ,” he whispered back.

“And he phrased it _as_ an assumption,” Aaron said. “You know that well enough.”

Then he let Hamilton go, turning away from him because Ezrine was starting to speak. Her back was straight again.

“Those are things that I can rescue him from,” Ezrine said. “You said that his trust fund is meant to last him for life, Mr Jefferson, but that is a wrong assumption. He has me. As his sister, as his previous _guardian_ , it is my responsibility to ensure that he is well taken care of throughout his life.”

Jefferson nodded, but Ezrine wasn’t finished.

“My parents believed that we, as children, must be allowed to make mistakes,” she continued, her voice growing stronger and fiercer with every word. “Only through making mistakes can we grow and learn as people. More importantly, I do not believe that my perspective should supersede his. Even if I view Levi’s actions as a mistake, I cannot interfere. That will both be imposing my views on him – excessively restricting him – and also not allowing him to grow as a person.”

“Very admirable, Ms Weeks,” Jefferson said, his voice barely louder than Ezrine’s rapid breaths. He took a few steps back and scanned the courtroom from side to side. “My other question, then, is this: do you believe that Mr Weeks’s character growth supersedes the danger his mistakes – as you put it – pose to others?”

Before Hamilton could move, Aaron grabbed him by the back of his jacket and pulled him back down. Hamilton practically flailed, but Aaron drove his nails into the soft skin beneath his collar.

“ _Sit down_ ,” he hissed into Hamilton’s ear. “The more objections you raise, the more Franklin overrules, the more desperate you make us seem.”

“But he’s—” Hamilton started.

“The question is relevant,” Aaron explained, speaking as quickly as he can. “It’s not ambiguous, or leading, or argumentative. He’s not badgering either. Stay down.”

Hamilton squeezed his eyes shut. He breathed out. Aaron dropped his hand to the back of his chair.

“No,” Ezrine said, voice still strong despite the slight tremulous note in it. “I don’t believe that.”

Jefferson nodded. There was the barest hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth. Aaron wanted, more than anything, to reach across the room and punch it off his face. He stayed down because Jefferson’s sidelong glance towards them showed that he wanted _exactly_ that reaction.

“You said that you researched on BDSM, correct?” Jefferson asked.

“Yes,” Ezrine nodded.

“Were you aware of Mr Weeks’s interest in electricity play, Ms Weeks?”

Blinking, Ezrine opened her mouth. “Yes.”

“Did you know the kind of equipment that your brother uses for electricity play?”

“Well,” Ezrine said. “I do now.”

“Please don’t avoid the question,” Jefferson said, voice oily and gentle both. “Were you aware of the machines he built and the materials, the batteries and crocodile clips and such things, he used _before_ January first, 2016?”

Slowly, Ezrine lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said.

Jefferson’s smirk widened. “Now that is strange,” he said in the same voice as before. “Given that you have researched on BDSM, Ms Weeks, you should know that electricity play requires specialised equipment, such as violet wands, that _greatly restricts_ ,” he didn’t put any emphasis on the words, but they rang out in the courtroom anyway, “the voltage. Did you really do your research? Were you really aware of what your brother was doing with Mr Elric Sands?”

Aaron lifted his hand from the back of Hamilton’s chair. Hamilton practically flew as he jumped upwards.

“Objection!” This time, the word shrieked through the room, reverberating in the walls itself. Jefferson made a theatrical wince. “The prosecution assumes fact not in evidence _and_ is using a compound question!”

Franklin’s eyebrow and mouth twitched at the same time. “Sustained,” he said. “District Attorney Jefferson, rephrase.”

Jefferson spread out his hands. Aaron realised, belatedly, that they had played right into his hands. They had made themselves look negligent, or worse, guilty, for not having brought in evidence with regards to violet wands in the first place, and reacting so aversely to its mention.

A proper opponent, he had said. Aaron almost wanted to laugh. He drove his nails harder into his palm. His other hand closed around Hamilton’s arm, giving the man some focus so he would stop trying to vibrate out of his skin.

“Have you realised, at any point in time, that your brother’s actions do not match with the research you have done?” Jefferson asked.

Ezrine looked practically ashen beneath her dark skin. Her knuckles were white on the stand. She took a deep breath. “No,” she said. Her voice was so much weaker now.

“Are you absolutely certain, Ms Weeks?” Jefferson pressed. “Please be aware of the possible consequences of your answer.”

Taking a deep breath, Ezrine’s hands uncurled. She dropped her arms by her sides, shoulders and spine straightening.

“I am absolutely certain,” she said. 

Aaron’s eyes darted towards the jury. His heart sank into his chest at what he saw: doubt written all over their faces.

_Shit._

He knew, of course, that Jefferson had managed to reach DA after only three years in New York. But he had always suspected it was partly because of Madison, and partly because of the connections Jefferson had in the upper legal circles. Perhaps both of those were still true, but Jefferson had just shown that there were plenty of reasons for him to have properly earned that position.

What the hell happened to Jefferson during the weekend? Was there any way it could be undone?

His eyes slid towards Hamilton. The information he wanted; Hamilton was planning to do _something_ with that, obviously. But… Would it suffice? Could it suffice? 

“What do you know about your brother’s relationship with Elric Sands?” Jefferson asked.

Ezrine stood even straighter. “Levi loved him with everything he has,” she said fiercely. “He loves him even now.” The conviction in her voice rang out loud in the courtroom. 

But it was too little, too late. Jefferson had already pointed out all of the contradictions and flaws in her viewpoint, utterly destroying her credibility as a witness. 

“No more questions,” Jefferson said. He returned to the prosecutor’s stand, footsteps still silent.

As Ezrine returned back to her seat and Franklin began the proceedings to adjourn the court – she was their only witness for the day – Aaron watched Jefferson. He took in the way he scribbled some more in his notebook, periodically chewing at the end of his cheap pen.

Franklin’s gavel hit its stand. “Court is adjourned,” the judge said. Aaron stood and bowed, keeping his eyes on Jefferson. The pen was a clue; it fitted into a puzzle. Unfortunately, it was a single piece in something far bigger.

“Hamilton,” he said, catching the man’s arm before he could turn away. “I need to talk to you.”

Turning to face Hamilton, he could see panic practically written all over the man’s face. He squeezed the arm in his a little harder, and dark lashes fluttered as Hamilton’s breath tripped a little in his throat.

Jefferson walked past them without even turning his head. His hand was tugging at the tie Aaron was half-certain belonged to Madison. Was that a _violin case_ in his hand?

“Alexander,” Aaron said, dipping his voice lower.

A jolt shot through Hamilton’s body. He shook his head hard. “I have to,” he started. He licked his lips. “I have to go. Something. I have something on. Sorry.”

He practically snatched his arm out of Aaron’s grasp, gathering his papers in a madcap rush, shoving all of them into his backpack.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said. Papers crinkled and rumpled as Hamilton pushed them all in without organising them. His hands were shaking. “I’ll… I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Burr. Tomorrow. I promise.”

Then he practically fled out of the door. Aaron stared after him. There, in Hamilton’s disappearing silhouette, was another puzzle. He thought he had solved that one; thought he _knew_ that Hamilton was just using him: to satisfy his own need for submission and his curiosity.

Apparently not. 

Aaron turned back to his desk. He started to pack up as well. When he was finished, he headed to where Ezrine was still sitting, blank-eyed, in her seat. He stopped in front of her.

“Ms Weeks,” he said. When she jerked, he pasted a smile on his face. “Let’s go pick up your brother together.”

She licked her lips. “Okay,” she said. She stood, and stumbled forward like she was newly reminded of her legs’ existence. Aaron stepped out of the way. He waited until she gathered herself before he led her to the room where Weeks was being kept.

He was crying – huge, wreaking sobs – when they found him. Ezrine practically fell on him. Aaron watched them. He had seen this more than a few times by now, but this was a first when Ezrine wasn’t calm.

Still, that odd, twisting discomfort in his stomach remained. He turned his head, looking out of the door of the small cell, gaze fixed on the direction where Hamilton had gone.

Aaron never liked not knowing things.

***

 _April 11, Monday_  
  
Alexander high-tailed it out of the courtroom. Jefferson’s distinctive curly hair was already gone from the hallway, so Alexander headed for the carpark. No obnoxious red Porsche. Where the hell was the man? 

He headed out of the carpark, and onto the main entrance of the New York District Courts. _There_ Jefferson was, getting into a yellow cab. Immediately, Alexander ran down the stairs, half-tripping over himself as he stuck his hand out into traffic, waving as hard as he could. He kept his eyes on Jefferson’s retreating cab, and barely managed to keep his yelp between his teeth when another one drew up to the curb.

“Just follow that cab in front,” Alexander panted out. When the driver stared dubiously at him from the rearview mirror, he flapped his hands and rattled off the license plate number. “Please just go. It’s for a good reason, I promise.”

“I don’t know if I can keep up in this traffic,” the driver said.

“Westchester,” Alexander said. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Probably up to Westchester. Just hurry, please? I’ll…” He floundered. “I’ll pay extra?”

The driver rolled his eyes. “You better have a good reason to behave like a stalker, boss,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Alexander to hear. Thankfully, he floored the accelerator.

Flopping back onto the leather upholstery, Alexander dropped his head back, trying to catch his breath. He was too old to be running and he had never been good at track anyway. Whenever he’d been around the track or the field in college, it had been because—

Never mind. His hand groped for his backpack, and he unzipped it and started sorting through his papers and notes absentmindedly as he reviewed what he knew.

Nothing much, really. The Debauchee didn’t have official records for its members anywhere that he could access, and the little intranet database they had of people putting up their profiles didn’t have any pictures or real names. Alexander knew better than to ask Wilmot – the man was close-mouthed to everyone but his favourites, and Wilmot didn’t like him much anyway because Burr _was_ one of those favourites. Unless he broke into Jefferson’s house, there was no way he could find any evidence of his conflict of interest.

Except that Jefferson’s cab didn’t seem to be heading for his house: the cab ahead chose a completely different highway exit, one that definitely didn’t head towards Sleepy Hollow. Jefferson was headed for… Irvington? Alexander blinked.

“Well, we’re at Westchester,” the driver said wryly. “Still want me to keep going?”

“Yeah,” Alexander nodded. “Slow down? Try to make sure that they can’t tell we’re following them?”

“But we _are_ following them,” the driver said. He seemed to be taking a perverse delight in refuting everything Alexander said.

Rolling his eyes, Alexander zipped up his bag and dumped it to the side. “That’s why I said _try._ ”

“You gonna tell me any time soon why you’re behaving like a stalker?” He jerked his head towards the cab that was now five hundred feet or so ahead. “You have your girl in that cab or something?”

“What?” Alexander blinked. He opened his mouth to deny it, and then closed it. It was just easier to let the driver assume whatever he liked. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Chasing her down like that isn’t going to make her forgive you any faster for any fuckups you did, you know,” the driver told him, sounding sage and wise. Alexander forced down an instinctive twitch at the thought of _Jefferson_ being ‘his girl’. 

“Gotta give it a try somehow,” he said, shrugging. 

Irvington was a series of rather quaint suburban houses randomly dotted amidst trees. There were a ridiculous number of trees, most of them with blossoms in full bloom because it was spring. They headed down Broadway. On Alexander’s left, he could see _Main Street_ written huge on a sign. There were two columns of buildings at every junction of this _Main Street_. One of those was the Town Hall. This was the town centre.

Alexander stared. He was in suburbia. Barely forty minutes out of midtown Manhattan, and he landed himself straight in the middle of the suburbs. There were trees everywhere. And they were heading even further north, where there were even fewer buildings and more trees. This place had more trees than _Central Park_. It was viscerally discomfiting to look at.

Who would live in this place? Seriously.

The cab ahead was slowing down. Alexander made a frantic motion to his own driver to do the same, and the man rolled his eyes but obeyed. They headed down Fargo Lane. They took another five minutes or so travelling down Fargo Lane, and through the entirety of those five minutes, Alexander counted five houses. 

“Stop!” He flapped his hand again. “Stop here. Just drop me off here.”

Jefferson headed into a road ahead that had no sign demarcating a change in the street name. Alexander might not have ever lived in the suburbs, but he knew what that meant – that road ahead was just for a single house. They were already headed into private property even though Alexander couldn’t see said house _anywhere_ because there were too many trees blocking the view.

Glancing quickly at the meter, Alexander pulled out his wallet. He paid the fare, included a forty percent tip, and scrambled out of the car. He ducked immediately into the trees, heading towards the direction of the road but not actually within sight of anyone walking along it. He held onto his shoulder straps tightly, forcing his backpack to not make a sound as he jogged down the lane.

Finally, the house came into view. Painted in grey with a blue rooftop, shimmering lightly in the orange light. Oddly enough, the colours reminded him of Jefferson’s tie. And, speaking of Jefferson, there he was, standing right in front of the gate. 

Alexander looked around him. There were only trees. He gritted his teeth, pulled his straps the tightest they could go, and took another look. He needed the height, and there were no rooftop of any other nearby building for this. But there was at least one tree with branches that hung low enough. He darted a look at Jefferson and headed for it.

He had never climbed a tree in his life, but today was, it seemed, a day for new things. Alexander gritted his teeth and hefted himself up. The branch shuddered a little, but held. The bark was rough against his palms but he’d had worse, hadn’t he, and so he pulled himself up again. And again, and again, while bark flaked off and fell around him. He tried to not think too much about getting down.

The tree reached high enough that Alexander could see the house easily from its top. Alexander did some acrobatics he hadn’t known he was capable of to turn around and sit on the branch. It shook ominously. He crawled a little closer to the trunk, and leaned his shoulder against it. He bounced on the branch, and it no longer threatened to break and send him crashing to the ground. That was as good as he could get.

Pulling off his backpack, he opened it and reached between the papers. Years ago, he’d bought an expensive camera with a video function, meant as a gift for a friend. He never ended up giving it to her, so he had stowed it at the back of his closet. It was a few years out of date, but after he screwed on the lens and put the tiny window to his eye, he could see Jefferson’s curls like the man was standing a bare few feet in front of him. Like he could practically see every individual strand of his neighbour’s leg hair from his window when he had first tried the thing out.

Jefferson was still standing there even though upwards of ten minutes had passed. He looked weirdly nervous; the smug, arrogant asshole from the courtroom had vanished. He dragged a hand through his hair.

Then he reached out and pressed something on the side of the gate. It should be a buzzer, but if it was a buzzer then there would be sound—

Shit. There was no sound. Nothing he recorded would have sound. _Shit_.

Alexander put the camera down. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to do this, he told himself. He had to. It didn’t matter if he didn’t want to. He needed to stop sabotaging his own efforts. He smacked his head a couple of times against the tree’s trunk and put the camera over his eye again.

Nothing had changed. Oh, there: Jefferson taking a couple of steps back, his eyes fixed upon someone beyond the gates. Alexander practically slammed down on the video record button before he turned the lens to the left.

Well, that answered his question about who lived in a town like Irvington. Alexander had been hoping, but he had learned long ago to not have too high expectations in case he was disappointed. It meant that he could enjoy his sigh of relief that nothing he’d done so far was completely wasted.

Madison opened the gate. Jefferson was saying something, his mouth moving, and Madison stood a foot away from him. His head was tilted downwards. What was he looking at? Jefferson’s violin case? It didn’t seem particularly important, because Jefferson was setting the thing down along with his duffel bag – who brought a duffel to the _damn courtroom_ anyway? – and then his hands were around his own neck. 

No, not his neck. His tie. That tie that clashed horribly with his entire outfit. Jefferson’s mouth moved. Just once, a single word.

As Alexander watched, Madison lurched forward. He cupped Jefferson’s face with both hands and kissed him. Actually, kissing wasn’t exactly the right word for it: it looked like he was trying to _devour_ Jefferson through his mouth alone. Jefferson’s hands were on Madison’s shoulders, gripping tight, and then Madison was spinning him around and pushing him against the wall.

Alexander felt like a voyeur. Okay, so he _was_ a voyeur. Next: this wasn’t helpful. Jefferson had gone on record for saying a bunch of homophobic rubbish back in Virginia, but that was Virginia and he never was on record for saying anything close to that in New York. Also, Jefferson having a sexual relationship with a man wasn’t relevant to the case. This would be terrible blackmail material.

There was an ache threatening to strangle the breath out of Alexander’s lungs. The longer he watched Jefferson and Madison clutch at each other, the tighter it went. It turned into a damned knife stabbing him right through the heart when Madison grabbed Jefferson’s thighs and lifted him up, still pressed against the wall, without once pulling away from his mouth.

Irrelevant.

Christ, he had never imagined his old college debate teammate capable of something like _that_. Madison had bulked up, sure, but the quiet, reserved man that Alexander knew was very different from the one who had stopped kissing Jefferson only to start grazing his teeth over Jefferson’s jawline, all the way down to his neck. Madison’s dark skin must be so convenient to hide beard rash.

If they started having sex right out there against the wall, Alexander would have enough blackmail to last a _lifetime_. Acceptance of homosexuality or not, this was public indecency. Never mind that Madison had practically no neighbours. Civil servants were supposed to obey the letter _and_ spirit of the law. And wasn’t Madison a Judge?

Unfortunately, Madison pulled away. His chest was heaving. Jefferson looked _dazed_ , lips red and swollen, curls crushed against the wall as he tipped his head back, eyes closed. If Alexander had seen him walking out of any room like this, he probably would’ve assumed that he’d just had sex. And all they were doing was _kiss_.

Not just kiss: Madison was doing something very weird. He was running his fingers all over Jefferson’s face, as if he was trying to map out his every feature. The camera was shaking. Alexander gripped it tighter, gritted his teeth, and told himself to focus on the job he had to do.

Finally, Madison put Jefferson back down. Jefferson fell forward, arms wrapped around Madison’s shoulders. Madison held him up – cobalt blue was really more of Madison’s colour than Jefferson’s, which made no sense, because, what the fuck? – and he didn’t seem to be able to stop _touching_ Jefferson. His hair, his neck, the entire length of his back and then up his sides.

 _What you’re doing is very, very wrong._ Alexander ignored that disapproving, French-accented voice in his head. He knew that already.

Then Madison seemed to be obeying some sort of unseen cue, because he pulled away from Jefferson entirely. Jefferson remained upright. He dragged a hand through his hair, and there was that stupid smirk again. His lips moved. Alexander wished he could get some audio, because what he was saying might just be the incriminating evidence he needed.

No such luck. Nothing else, either, because Madison was headed for the baggage Jefferson had dropped. He picked up the violin case, handed it over the Jefferson – what _was_ that pause? – and then the duffel. 

Hell. Alexander had wasted all this time and money for nothing.

Jefferson spoke again. Madison turned around. Then Jefferson reached up towards his tie, and he took it off. He offered it to Madison. Madison didn’t move for long moments. Neither did Alexander. 

_C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,_ he chanted in his head. _C’mon_.

Madison took the tie and dropped the bag. Jefferson’s lips moved again; a single word, the same one as before. Madison took one step forward, then another. Alexander’s head spun from the lack of air, so he forced himself to breathe. Madison draped the tie over Jefferson’s shoulders. Pulled on one side. Then he looped the longer end over Jefferson’s head four times. Jefferson didn’t move. Their eyes were fixed upon each other.

Slowly, Madison picked up the other end. He pulled both until the silk was tight against Jefferson’s throat. Jefferson’s head dropped backwards, lips parting and eyes falling closed. Madison grabbed the duffel again, gathered both ends of the collar with one hand, and jerked it down.

The violin case didn’t touch the ground. But Jefferson’s knees did. When Madison tugged on the tie again, this time upwards, Jefferson rocked backwards on his heels, and stood up in one fluid motion.

Like he had been trained.

Alexander lowered the camera. He stabbed the record button, switching it off, without looking. He didn’t need any more than this. He took the lens off of the camera, and stowed the entire thing back into his bag.

Then he leaned his head against the tree trunk. Breathed. Stifled the fire in his chest and boxed up the face hovering at the edge of his mind. He brushed his hand over his eyes and ignored the liquid there.

When he looked up again, Jefferson and Madison were gone. The gate was closed.

He would edit out the kiss, Alexander decided. He would edit out everything except for that one incriminating moment. It would be the first thing he did when he reached his apartment. What he was doing was terrible enough to not add more to it. 

There was no audio, but Alexander didn’t need it to know what it was that Jefferson had said. The single word, repeated twice:

 _Yours_.

Tipping his head back, Alexander stared at the sky. The sun was in almost in the same position as the last he checked it. The temperature hadn’t changed. The leaves were still rustling the same way.

There really needed to be more dramatic signs whenever a man damned himself irrevocably. 

***

 _April 11, Monday_  
  
Thomas’s mouth felt numb, his eyes were still slightly crossed from the force of the kiss, and his knees ached from the imprint of concrete. His head spun the echoes of the onslaught of emotions. But all of that simply steadied him further as he followed James into the house. 

Paradox. Paradoxes. He knew how to live with them now. Or, at least, he thought he did. Because the thing about being underwater for so long was that you got used to the distortion—

 _He._ He got used to the distortion. He convinced himself that it was correct; that it was how it really was, never mind that he should know better. And now his head was above the water – water he had poured over himself – and he didn’t know if what he was seeing was how things really should be. Head above water. That wasn’t enough but it was a _start_. His fingers tightened around the handle of the violin case.

James’s house was set in the midst of a huge spread of trees and grass. There were only four rooms in the house discounting the living room and the kitchen, two above – guestroom and study – and two below – bedroom and dining room. He didn’t even have a cellar, though there was an attic. His house didn’t include the in-house theatre system, the pool, or anything that Thomas realised that he had insisted upon for the sake of ‘potential future use’ but which had simply laid there as bedrock for dust. There were no servants either; only a housekeeper who came once a week on Saturday mornings.

The living room was small, with a television and a single couch. The air was warm because James had chosen this house partly because it was made of stone. Thomas stood at the doorway for a brief moment before he headed inside. He put the violin on the coffee table. If he moved it, the floor was carpeted; there was plenty of room to kneel. Thomas headed into the dining room and grabbed a chair instead, setting it to the side of the couch, facing the table. James’s head ducked downwards. He put Thomas’s bag very carefully on the floor. 

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he said, still standing.

Thomas reached out. He grabbed a sleeve – James was wearing one of his comfortable turtlenecks though it was summer – and tugged. James stumbled forward, and his skin was still so cold against Thomas’s. He nudged James over to the couch, urging him to sit, before he took both hands and tried to cover them with his own. 

“Had to get away from here,” Thomas said. His lips quirked upwards into a small, wry smile. “Not from you. From here.”

From New York and all of its complications. Back to Virginia where everything had used to be simpler. Or where he thought everything had was simpler.

“You went to see Martha?” James said. Despite the upward inflection, it was more of a statement than a question.

“Yeah,” Thomas said. His eyes dropped down to James’s hands, and he started rubbing the fingers with his own. “Went to see her Pops, too.”

James’s hands twitched, but he didn’t pull away. “Why?”

“Trying to figure some stuff out,” Thomas said. He huffed out a quiet laugh, practically involuntary, and shook his head. “There was a lot I needed to figure out, honestly.”

“Have you?”

“Some,” Thomas said. He shrugged, and then ran his blunt nail down the length of James’s left thumb before moving onto the next finger. James always had terrible circulation. “Not all of it. But the important parts.”

Silence. Thomas alternated between rubbing and scraping as he waited. The familiar impatience was rising up again, but he pushed it down because he knew he had to wait, this time. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” James said.

Lifting his head, Thomas’s smile widened. “Knew you would say that,” he chuckled. “But I had to hear you say it anyway, so that I know that I’m not remembering only what I want to.”

James’s hands turned, fingers sliding in between Thomas’s, clutching onto them. Thomas didn’t pull away; squeezed back instead and tucked his chin down so he could brush his lips over those knuckles. 

“Thomas,” he started.

“Took me three days to figure it out myself,” Thomas interrupted, voice no louder than a murmur. “Still not quite sure about all of it, really, much less how to tell you. Have some patience with me?”

“Always,” James told him. Thomas didn’t need to look into his eyes to know he meant it. If there was anything he knew about James, it was that he always meant everything he said. Everything he did.

His eyes fell closed. He brought James’s hands up, pressing the broad knuckles against his forehead. He pressed his nose against James’s wrist, inhaling the slight hint of sickness – probably the remnants of a cold – and the soft, spicy scent that he had grown so familiar with. It made him think of the sweat and the musk again; made his stomach roil deep inside him. But he was still here, in this living room; the bar didn’t come back.

“I know what you did, that first night,” he said. Before James could tense, before he could pull his hands back, Thomas tightened his grip. “I also know what I’ve been doing to Sally. They can be described with the same word, but they’re so different at the same time. And what I did to her was far worse.”

“Thomas,” James started.

“Shhh,” Thomas shushed, barely more than breath hissing through his teeth. He didn’t open his eyes. “Let me finish. Don’t make excuses for me. Don’t protect me from the consequences of my own decisions. Okay?”

He could practically hear James swallow. He felt the fingers twitch again in his grasp before they went completely still. “Okay,” James said.

“That night…” Thomas paused. He lowered their entwined hands, brushed his lips over the knuckles. “When I tried to say no, you didn’t stop. When I tried to use the safeword, you kissed me, and you didn’t stop. That night… you raped me, James.” 

This time, he held on tight when James tried to pull away. He squeezed as hard as he could even as he brought James’s hands further down, following his own jawline to his neck. Where the tie still sat. He could smell the salt of tears from here. He knew he was hurting James, and that was why he was keeping his eyes closed. 

Long ago, during that night when they discussed the first draft of his argument, his eyes had been open, and he’d refused to see. Now, his eyes were closed, but he still saw. More paradoxes. He felt himself settle even more.

“Why… why…” James choked out. Thomas smiled, turning his head and nuzzling against any spot of skin he could still reach. 

“Because I knew why you did that,” he answered the question James couldn’t articulate. “Not because I begged. You did it because I was destroying myself. You were trying to give me a way to piece myself together. Yeah?”

“Thomas,” James said. “Thomas, I… I’m…”

“Don’t apologise,” Thomas interrupted, voice still soft. “Let me finish?”

A ragged breath. The room was so quiet. It was so quiet here in Irvington, as if the entire town was asleep. James squeezed his hands.

“Okay.”

“I know what you were trying to do, now,” Thomas continued. “You wrapped me up with yourself and rewrote all of the rules. You wrapped me up entirely with yourself to shield me from all the blows you thought the world was dealing me.”

“Not the world,” James breathed. Thomas smiled, because he should have known. He wasn’t surprised that James understood so well.

“Just me,” he agreed. “All the hurt was just my own doing. What I’ve been doing to myself.” He lowered his head and started to kiss the knuckles, one by one. “All the pain was a consequence of all I have done.”

“That doesn’t… that doesn’t mean…” James breathed out.

“Yeah,” Thomas nodded. He didn’t stop kissing the knuckles, retracing the steps once he reached the end. “You still raped me. And, after that night, you wrapped yourself so tightly around me that you nearly choked me to death. Your intentions don’t change any of that. But it’s okay.”

James’s inhale was ragged and so terribly broken. Thomas brought his hands down to his own neck again, rubbing over the silk of the tie there.

“Weeks ago,” he said when James sounded like he had calmed down some, “just after Angelica came back, I went to a bar looking for an exorcism. I was so convinced that what I felt for you was wrong. If I felt this way for you, then it meant that what I felt for Martha was a lie. It meant that I wasn’t who I thought I was.”

“You didn’t tell me this,” James whispered.

“I was trying to block it out,” Thomas shrugged. He sighed, tipping his head back. “A couple of guys there tried to rape me.” He gripped James’s hand tight again, asking for patience and calm without words. “I was in an alley and they forced me on my knees. At the time… at the time… I practically welcomed it.”

“Thomas,” James started again.

“Not your fault,” Thomas shook his head. “Not something that you could’ve helped with, either.” He paused, and then his shoulders shuddered with an involuntary laugh. “But I’m kind of glad that happened, because it… showed me something, once I knew how to look.”

“What did it show you?”

“The difference,” Thomas said. “The law says, rape is a crime of power. Those men didn’t hate me, exactly; they just hated the idea of me and what I represented to them. What they tried to do to me was entirely for themselves. They were just using me for their own personal exorcism because I was there.”

Stench of piss and vomit and sex. Thomas shuddered. He pressed his eyes shut even tighter, holding James’s hands hard against his forehead. The alleyway didn’t come when he thought about James, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t still _there_.

“But,” he said. His voice shook, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to continue. “But you cared. It wasn’t just for you.”

“You’re painting too good a picture of me,” James murmured. His arms were trembling; most likely from the effort of not engulfing Thomas in his arms. Thomas held on tight to his hands and reminded himself why he was doing this.

“I’m not,” he shook his head. “I said not ‘just’ for you. You did it because you wanted me, right? Because you wanted _me_. I could feel that. Even just now, at the door, you wanted me. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” James said. “But that’s not…”

“Shhh,” Thomas nuzzled his knuckles again. “I know that’s not an excuse. I know you still did what you did. But there’s a difference. The word is the same but there are different shades within it. That’s why it’s…”

His breath caught in his throat. He swallowed, and tried to continue, but he simply _couldn’t_.

“Thomas,” James said. His hands didn’t move, but Thomas could hear the sound of his slacks sliding against the couch, the thudding of his feet on the carpet. “It’s not… it’s not okay, is it?”

“Please, James,” Thomas said. “Please just….stay there. Don’t come closer. Please? Not closer.”

Outside, it was fine. He’d wanted James to kiss him. He’d wanted James to claim him all over again. If James had stripped him outside and taken him like he hadn’t for these past weeks, Thomas would have been fine with it. He would have wanted it. But now…

Now his muscles were locking up, his throat was closing, and there was a weight on his lungs. Thomas recognised the stench of fear, now, and it was all around him, surrounding him so entirely. His every pore was soaked in it. Outside he hadn’t been afraid but now he was terrified. Here was another paradox, but it wasn’t one that calmed him. 

There was still so much that didn’t make any _sense_.

His breathing was growing ragged and so loud in the room, reverberating in his ears no matter how hard he tried to calm himself. 

“My God,” he heard James breathe. “What have I _done_ to you?”

“Not your fault,” Thomas gasped out, using up precious oxygen. “Not entirely.”

“Let me help,” James said. His tone made Thomas flinch even before he knew why. “Please, can I help?”

James’s arms around him. James holding him. Like he wanted when he was kneeling in front of Martha’s obelisk. James’s body engulfing him and choking out all of the air in his body—

“Stay there,” Thomas begged. “Stay there. Don’t come closer. Stay there.”

“Okay,” James said. His voice grew fainter, farther away. “Okay. I’m staying here. I’m not moving.”

His eyes weren’t burning; no tears. No memories threatening to encroach, either. Just pure, visceral terror, like he was a child again and there was a monster in his closet, except this time he didn’t even have soft toys to hold or parents to call. He had to fight through this on his own. He had to figure this out on his own.

He didn’t even know what he was afraid of.

Minutes ticked past. James kept his promise and didn’t come closer. Thomas tried to breathe, to ride out the wave as best as he could. He was drowning all over again but now he didn’t have the shield of his own beliefs to surround him. It was overwhelming and terrifying and he was gripping James’s hands tight enough to crush the bones, because it was the one anchor he had left—

Hard chair beneath his thighs. Couch; not James’s, his own. James tearing apart his first argument; cracks in the foundation of his world but he ignored them until there were lips on his and he couldn’t ignore them anymore. Alcohol and nicotine and ignoring and ignoring and _ignoring_.

Oh. It was not James he was afraid of at all. He thought he’d learned this. He thought he had lifted his head above the water and looked at the world properly. And he had – he _had_ – but he had been submerged for so long that he had grown gills and his lungs had grown rusty with lack of use. Learning to breathe again and drowning in open air.

Thomas didn’t open his eyes, but his breathing began to ease. He still had James’s hands in a death grip; they were even colder now. Slowly, he started to uncurl his fingers. Pressed his mouth against the knuckles and held on to his anchor.

“Not your fault,” Thomas said. Then, because he knew James; knew that he wouldn’t believe him, he added, “That wasn’t because of you.”

“That’s pretty hard to believe,” James said, and there was a tremulous dryness in his tone.

Lips curving up despite himself, Thomas nosed between the knuckles, letting his wet, heavy breaths ghost over James’s skin. “You raped me, but I forgive you,” Thomas said softly. 

“Forgiveness implies blame,” James murmured.

“Yeah,” Thomas nodded. “Because what you did was wrong, so it’s not okay. And it’s okay at the same time, because I forgive you. Does that make sense?”

James’s fingers clenched tight over his as they started to tremble. Thomas heard a few rapid huffs of breath – James’s quiet laughter – and he ducked his head and hid his smile. 

“Makes sense,” James murmured. “But what does that mean for…” He trailed off.

“Later,” Thomas said. This time, when he smiled, he didn’t mean it: the barest twitch of the lips for James’s benefit more than his own. “I know I’m being selfish, but there something else I need to tell you, something I need help with, before I can even think about that.”

He couldn’t allow himself to envision what he could have with James without this. If he did, the fear would choke him again; the guilt would drain all of the air out of his lungs until he was left as a dry husk.

A sharp intake of breath. When James laughed, it sounded like he didn’t mean to. Because Thomas hadn’t ever acknowledged his own selfishness before.

“Of course, Thomas,” James said. “Of course.”

“It’s not only what happened in the bar that helped me realise the difference,” Thomas murmured. “There’s… there’s what I did with Sally, too.”

“You don’t have to explain to me,” James told him, voice infinitely gentle.

“I have to,” Thomas said. He pressed James’s knuckles against his forehead, harder this time. Even though he knew that he didn’t deserve this comfort. “I have to, James. Just like you have to stop shielding me from the terrible consequences of my own actions.”

James didn’t say a word.

“What I did with Sally…” Thomas’s shoulders shook. He didn’t laugh; he couldn’t even try for that. “I raped her, James. I raped her like those men at the bar tried to rape me. Except that there weren’t anyone to rescue her like someone did me.”

Eventually, he would have to tell James the whole story about what happened in that bar. But not now. Not now. He had to put away himself now, even though it might mean that he was putting Catherine away too.

“Sally, she…” Thomas’s breath hitched. “When she came to me, she was desperate. It was my fault that she was desperate. I knew about the Hemingses. Martha had told me about them. But I didn’t… I didn’t think much about it. They didn’t come forward – they _shouldn’t_ have had to come forward – and I didn’t see. I didn’t care. So all Sally was left with was desperation.”

Still silence. It wasn’t just for Thomas’s own sake that he had to say this, too; James had to know so he could decide if Thomas was still worth all that he had so freely given.

“There was nothing personal about what I did, you know,” he forced himself to continue. “Nothing. She wasn’t… She was just a substitute to me. I wanted Martha to be alive and I saw her and she looked just like Martha and so I…” he choked.

“You used her,” James murmured. “Just like I used you for my own selfishness.”

“Not the same thing,” Thomas shook his head. “You saw _me_. You were looking at me and seeing _me_ at the time. But I wasn’t seeing her at all. She said…” He took a deep breath. “She said that I made her into a living sex toy with Martha’s face, and she was… she was _right_.”

James squeezed his hands. Thomas didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve the comfort, but he took it anyway. Held onto the anchor he had; the one man who had come all the way with him from Virginia just to _be_ his anchor; who would follow Thomas to the ends of the earth even though Thomas brought him straight to hell.

“I went to the Wayles estate yesterday,” he continued, trying to steady his voice and failing. “I checked the records. I know exactly how much money the Hemingses should have received; how much I took from them. I… I could give it back to them. I _want_ to give it back to them. But that’s what I should’ve done in the first place and I don’t know how to make up for what I did. There doesn’t seem to be anything I could do to make up…”

He gasped hard. The fear was threatening at the edges again. Thomas knew now that he had never been the hero of the story, the prince of the fairytale, but he didn’t want to be the villain either. He didn’t want to be Bluebeard, the monster with a dozen corpses in a room, but he feared he already _was_.

Hadn’t Bluebeard thought himself the hero, too?

“Shh,” James said. His thumb slipped out from Thomas’s grasp, stroking over his knuckles. Slowly, the rhythm simple and easy to follow, and Thomas focused on it. “Shhh. I can’t help you think up of ways you can make up for what you did, but… why don’t you ask Sally?”

Thomas’s head jerked up. He still didn’t open his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You’re telling me all this, all you think you’ve done.” Thomas opened his mouth to protest – he _knew_ he was right – but James was still stroking over his knuckles, so he focused on that and nodded instead. 

“If she agrees that’s what you’ve done, ask her what you can do to make up for it,” he said. “If you don’t do that, Thomas… you’ll be repeating your mistakes all over again.”

“What?”

“You’ll be doing what _you_ think best,” James said, his voice so gentle but his every word blade-sharp. “You’ll be making decisions affecting more than one person based upon what you think, what you want. You still won’t be listening to her.”

_Oh._

Lowering his head, Thomas pressed his forehead on top of their entwined hands. His breath shuddered out of him. “I don’t know if I can face her,” he said. In her eyes, he would be the villain. He would rather be the coward. If only until he learned how to deal with situations without trying to win.

He could still win. He knew that, from the courtroom. But winning… winning didn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

“Do you think I can ask Angelica instead?” Thomas asked, knowing that he sounded like a petulant child but unable to help himself.

“Angelica?” James sounded surprised. “Why Angelica?”

“She’s Sally’s girlfriend.”

“Hah,” James said. “Did you know that before…?”

Thomas shook his head. “I didn’t know when… when I started, with Sally. I suspected for a while but I only _knew,_ ” knowing should only be used when he had enough evidence from the mouths of those he was claiming to know, “when she came up to me on Thursday.”

“Thursday,” James repeated flatly. Thomas almost smiled; he could practically hear the snaps as James put the puzzle pieces into place.

“Yeah,” he whispered. He turned his head, and nuzzled James’s hand again, rubbing his beard over the soft skin. James was warm, now. “But it was a long time coming anyway.”

“I went to Sally on Wednesday,” James whispered.

“It was a long time coming,” Thomas repeated. And, for another time: “Not your fault. Don’t put things that should be on my shoulders onto yours. It’s a bad habit.”

And Thomas’s was to shift the blame to everyone but himself. His shoulders shook with silent, mirthless laughter, and he kissed those knuckles again.

“It’s hard to believe that it’s not my fault,” James said, voice low and tight. “Not when I see what my actions have done to you.”

“Well, I should be the one deciding whether something that you’ve done to me is your fault or not,” Thomas told him. “And how you should make up for it to me.”

“That,” James said slowly, “applies to you and Sally too, doesn’t it?”

Thomas froze for just a moment. Then that laugh came to him again, and he smiled against James’s wrist. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“If I accept your judgment, then....” James paused. “Will you accept hers, too? Will you do your best to live with it, at least?”

He didn’t believe that he deserved anything other than condemnation. Surely Sally would give him nothing but condemnation. He’d already accepted that, so he nodded.

“Yeah.”

James squeezed his fingers again. Thomas held onto him for a long moment, not speaking. Then he sighed and pushed himself off the chair. His knees hit the floor, and he kept his eyes closed as he crawled forward on them, still holding onto James’s hands. The air was thick with the tension James was holding in his body, but Thomas didn’t tell him to relax – he knew it would be useless.

Instead, he leaned forward, and rested his head on top of James’s thighs. Buried his face against the strong, hard muscles even as he squeezed those hands in his. He tried to open his eyes.

They had been closed for so long that even the muted light were too bright. Thomas hissed, gripping even tighter, but he forced his eyelids to keep opening. Slowly, slowly, until they stopped stinging and he could tip his head backwards.

Thomas had been keeping his eyes closed just for this moment: the first sight of James’s face after he’d heard everything Thomas had to say, when he knew everything Thomas had done. 

“Hey,” James said. His voice was so quiet, his eyes so dark. Thomas’s grip on their hands slackened, and James reached out and brushed a curl behind his ear.

This time – _this time_ – Thomas turned his head, and nuzzled the palm. His breath hitched as his eyes burned, and he pressed James’s hand hard against his cheek because he knew now that he didn’t deserve this. Yet James gave it to him, freely and unreservedly, anyway, and all Thomas could do was to hold it as carefully as he could. All he could do was to try to deserve what James gave to him.

So different from Martha. She was his princess, and he her prince, and they always deserved each other; they were a fairytale. But there was nothing simple about what he had with James. Just a mass of tangles clumped around their joined hands.

Thomas wouldn’t change anything.

Leaning forward, James pressed a kiss into his curls. His other hand slipped beneath the silk of the tie, cupping the back of Thomas’s neck.

“Mine,” he whispered.

This was what he wanted, and yet Thomas found his lungs seizing up anyway. He closed his eyes again, breathing out even as tremors shook his body. As James pulled back, Thomas didn’t stop him.

“Not yet,” he said. “Not when you’re like this.”

James’s fingers curved over his cheeks. Thomas opened his eyes again, and met dark eyes wide with confusion.

“What do you mean?” James asked.

Taking James’s hand, Thomas bent the fingers and pressed a kiss onto the knuckles. “I’m bad for you,” he said. “Your restraint disappears around me. And you…”

He reached up and traced the fine lines around James’s eyes. He had been thinking about this for days.

“You’re wearing blinkers because of me, James,” he murmured. “You see nothing but me. That’s bad for you.”

Before James could protest – and Thomas could tell that he wanted to, with the way his lips were parting – Thomas reached out and brushed his thumb over those full, plush lips. He wanted to kiss James so much at the moment, but he shouldn’t. Not yet.

“Don’t touch me,” he said quietly. “Not even kisses. Nothing beyond what we used to do before this began.” Because he knew that forswearing touch entirely would break them both. “Not until you return to yourself again.”

“What if I don’t want to see more than you?” James asked. “What if I prefer having you as the centre of my world?”

Thomas shook his head. “That’s too heavy,” he said. “You know how that feels. It’s too heavy.”

James’s eyes fell shut. He turned his head and kissed Thomas’s wrist. “Yeah,” he said. “It was. It is.” He shuddered, then looked at Thomas again through heavy lashes.

“Can I… just once more?”

He should say no. What happened at the gate was supposed to be the last time; he told himself that and was practically convinced of it. But James was looking at him with eyes overspilling with hope and nervousness and, God.

Straightening his legs, Thomas reached up. He let James grip him by the hips and lift him off the floor onto his lap. His eyes closed as James’s hands cupped his face, and he tilted his head immediately as lips touched his. Thomas opened his mouth as James kissed him, his hand sinking into short curls as his other arm wrapped around broad shoulders.

If he had insisted on keeping his head underwater, he wouldn’t have this. Maybe… maybe being Bluebeard would be fine, after all, because he knew he had a dragon right beside him.

James spun them around and pushed him onto the couch. Thomas gasped, eyes flying open, as James’s mouth took his with even greater force, tongue pushing past his lips and teeth to claim every inch. His broader, stronger body pressed Thomas down into the cushions, pinned his arms down by his sides.

Thomas closed his eyes. And bit down, _hard_.

“Ow!”

As James jerked away, Thomas reached up and took his face with those hands. He stroked his thumb over the cheekbones, helpless to stop the wry smile curving up his lips at the way James was wincing.

“That,” Thomas said, just a little arch, “was _exactly_ what I meant.” Then, to soften the blow and also to stop that panic he could see encroaching into the corners of James’s eyes, he thumped him hard on the shoulder.

“You’re seriously worse than a teenager.”

Closing his eyes, James lowered his head. When Thomas tugged impatiently on his collar, he stopped holding himself up and slumped over, sending Thomas back onto the couch as well. He buried his face in Thomas’s shoulders.

“Only when it comes to you,” he mumbled. “I’ve never… never wanted anyone before you.”

Thomas stared up to the ceiling. It was heavy. Not James’s body – that one he could handle, James lying right on top of his ribs or not – but his desire, entirely focused on Thomas. 

“Yeah,” he said. He stroked those short, soft curls again. “I know.”

They laid like that in silence as James gathered himself back together again and Thomas waited for him. He didn’t stop the movement of his hand.

Then James sighed. He lifted himself up, looking Thomas in the eye. “You know,” he said, dryly amused. “Cold turkey is a terrible way to quit an addiction.”

“Says the man who made me quit alcohol and nicotine via cold turkey,” Thomas pointed out, just as dry.

“That’s different,” James said. For some reason, he poked Thomas’s nose. Thomas’s eyes crossed as he tried to follow the finger, and James laughed. “You weren’t actually addicted to those things. I’m very much addicted to you.”

Biting his lip, Thomas considered that. “Okay,” he said slowly, looking James in the eye again. “Bit by bit, then? I’ll tell you to stop whenever I think you’re going too far.”

When James cocked his head, he added, “Anyway, isn’t the sub is supposed to call the shots?” Somehow, calling himself that was easier when he made it into half a joke.

James blinked. “How do you know that?” he asked, practically accusing. “You were on a farm.”

“The Internet,” Thomas said.

“You were on a _farm_ ,” James repeated, insistent.

Thomas couldn’t help it: he threw his head back and laughed. “My farm has Internet access,” he said through his chuckles. Reaching up, he cupped James’s cheeks with both hands again. “Seriously. It’s 2016. There’s this thing called a satellite dish?”

Lifting himself up, he gave James a kiss. Barely a peck on the lips. When James’s eyes darkened, he dropped back onto the couch and made a cross with both arms.

“Nope,” he said. “Stop right there. Nope.”

Those dark eyes fixed on his, the fire in them intense. Then James sighed and flopped back down again. “I should drive you back to your house, then,” he said into Thomas’s shirt. “Lessen the temptation.”

“That’ll be too easy,” Thomas said, and stifled the shudder at the mere thought of the house. Of his bedroom in that house. He closed his eyes. “Can I take your guestroom upstairs?”

“Of course,” James said. And because he knew Thomas far too well, he tipped his head up and met Thomas’s eyes. “Is there something wrong with the house?”

Thomas tried to smile. It didn’t work very well; made his face feel like it was near to cracking. “Well,” he said lightly. “I was thinking that I should learn to let it go. Since I’m probably going to sell it.”

“Sell it?” James blinked. “Why?”

“Martha’s family was richer than mine,” he said, lips quirking upwards. “I’ll get to keep Monticello and I definitely won’t starve, but…” He shrugged as much as he could while lying down.

“Where will you stay, then?” 

“I can try to find an apartment somewhere around Manhattan,” Thomas said. He bit his tongue.

But James finished it for him anyway: “Or you can move in here.” His lips quirked into a lopsided smile. “Like you said, I have a guestroom.”

“Yeah, you do,” Thomas murmured. He stroked his fingers over the side of James’s face before he tipped his head back and sighed. “But… later?”

“Mm,” James said. His fingers carded through Thomas’s curls, movement gentle and slow. “And if you don’t want to go to your house… I can head over and get your stuff. Your clothes. Some of your favourite books.”

Turning his head, Thomas kissed the wrist right next to his face. “Like I said,” he murmured, looking at James from underneath heavy lashes. “Don’t protect me from the consequences of my actions.”

“My actions, too,” James pointed out.

“Point still stands,” Thomas murmured. When James didn’t look convinced, he cracked another smile. “How ‘bout you just drive me up there, and I’ll head in and grab what I need? If your garage can fit it, I’ll bring one my cars over too?”

Probably the Jaguar. He’d probably sell it along with the others, too.

“Yeah,” James said. His thumb brushed the lips of Thomas’s tremulous smile. “I can do that. Though I can’t say the same about the garage.”

No car, then. It was probably better this way.

They looked at each other for a moment more before they both sat up, shifting on the couch until they were sitting next to each other. James’s arm wrapped around his waist. Thomas dropped his head on James’s shoulder; it was a little awkward since he had a couple of inches on James, but he managed. He nudged away the dining room chair with his toe and closed his eyes.

“You know,” James said, that dry amusement returning to his voice. “We didn’t use to do this before.”

Thomas snorted. He reached up and shoved at James’s shoulder without opening his eyes. “Fuck it, seriously.” He paused, then added. “At least, for tonight.”

“For tonight,” James echoed. He pulled Thomas tighter against his side. Thomas put his hand over James’s chest, to feel his heart beating.

They stayed like this for a long time. When Thomas fell asleep, James woke him up. Thomas slept in the guestroom. Both weren’t what Thomas wanted, but it was what James needed; what was necessary for both of them.

He tried to hold onto that thought. It was hard to fall asleep anyway.

_**End Book III: hell is empty** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Hamilton and Burr are fighting a losing case. Pretty much everything is against them. If you’ve forgotten, please reread the last scene of Chapter 14 again (or the summary in that chapter’s end notes). I really don’t think you _want_ them to win. (Also, if you think Jefferson is too smart… Guy went straight from ~~reggae~~ ragtime (thanks Cala137!) with no knowledge of rap – What’d I Miss?’ – to Daveed Diggs – ‘Washington on Your Side’ – in the space of _seven songs_. He’s smart as hell and I _want_ you to cheer for him with regards to the competence porn. Because then the third scene has a greater impact.)
> 
> Alexander’s peanut gallery commentary is something that has been on my writing bucket list for forever. Not _Alexander_ precisely, but I always wanted to write down the kind of running commentary _I_ have in my head whenever I write super emotional romantic scenes between my characters since forever. I also like playing around with names and what characters call each other. 
> 
> Accurate things: 1) It is entirely possible to smoke and drink incessantly without getting addicted to either, 2) Martha Jefferson in history was richer than her husband, 3) James Madison’s haplessness at technological advancements (he raged so hard about the introduction of paper money, and he still wore breeches when everyone else switched to trousers.), and 4) Oak is 5’11 or 6’, Daveed is 6’1 or so, and height rule can kiss my ass.
> 
> Honestly, Jefferson is and will always be my favourite. The mass of emotions I feel regarding the guy is the impetus to even write this fic. I've said this before, and he’s in five relationship tags and is the first name on the main character list. But then again, my definition of 'favourite' is... odd.
> 
> Book IV will be the climax and resolution of two plotlines as well as the resolution for the other four. 
> 
> PS: If you think Jefferson is going to the other extreme, that’s because he is.


	22. hate the sin, love the sinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful when chasing what you want, because you might be getting further from what you need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **_Book IV: and all the devils are here_ **   
> 
> 
> **Warnings:** First scene: blackmail. Second scene: discussion of post-traumatic syndrome, depiction of misdiagnosis by a psychiatrist (IDK if this is a proper content warning, but I’m adding it anyway), and flashbacks regarding past rape and child abuse.

_April 13, Wednesday_

The receptionist of One Hogan Place was a Hispanic woman, mid-forties at a glance; probably a paralegal who never managed to break out of the admin trap. Her curly hair was tied back away from her face in a tight bun that gave Alexander a headache just to look at. He pasted on a smile anyway.

“Hi,” he greeted. His eyes darted down to her nametag. “Maggie. Right. Uh, is District Attorney Jefferson in?”

She gave him a dubious look. “He doesn’t have any appointments that will take him out for the day,” she said, slowly. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, uh, I mean,” Alexander flapped his hand. “I don’t need an appointment. He knows who I am.”

“Mr Jefferson knows a lot of people,” Maggie told him, voice dryer than the desert. “All of them still need to make an appointment before they can go into his office.”

“I’m Alexander Hamilton,” he said. “I’m the- one of the defence lawyer in the Weeks case?”

He leaned forward with his hands on the marble counter. Christ, this was made with taxpayers’ money; he felt a little better about the bomb he was carrying around on his phone. Kind of. He twitched his mouth up wider. 

“So you _don’t_ have an appointment,” Maggie stated flatly. But his smile must have done some good, because she sighed, picking up her phone. “Okay, I’ll page him to see if he’s free to see you.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “What are you here for anyway?”

“Uh,” Alexander said eloquently. _I’m here to blackmail him_ would be the honest answer, but he didn’t think that would go well. So he swallowed and said the first thing that came to his head: “I’m here with something Judge Madison wants me to pass on to him.”

“You’re his opposing lawyer and you’re acting as Judge Madison’s errand boy,” Maggie said, incredulity clear in her tone. When Alexander shrugged, keeping his smile on, she sighed again. “Well, you should’ve said earlier that you’re here with regards to Judge Madison. I would’ve paged Mr Jefferson immediately.”

Who the hell still used ‘paged’ as an actual verb? Alexander had thought the term had died out along with the pagers. He forced the smile wider, cheeks aching, and said, “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

She picked up the phone and started to dial. “Mr Jefferson, sir? There’s a Mr Alexander Hamilton here to see you,” she said. There was a pause. “He said that he’s here with something from Judge Madison.” She blinked a few times. Alexander held his breath. 

Then she put down the phone. “He said you can go on right up.” And then she waved him towards the lift. “All the way up, top floor. His office is at the end of the corridor. It’s the only office on that floor.

“Okay,” Alexander said. He hoisted his bag up higher on his shoulders, and headed for the elevator. Then he turned around and gave her a smaller, more natural smile this time. “Thanks, Maggie.”

Her head was turned away from him, but he reckoned that he saw a small smile anyway.

The elevator wasn’t as ostentatious as the reception desk, perhaps because the people who designed this place figured that there was no one they needed to impress once they escaped that trap. Alexander jabbed the button for the highest floor. The doors creaked softly as they closed. 

Whatever self-righteousness he had tried to grasp had already escaped his hands. He took a few deep breaths and told his heart to calm down.

Jefferson’s door was plain, the only overly expensive part of it the shining plate with his name engraved on it. Alexander poked the thing – it looked like actual gold instead of the usual brass. The self-righteousness came back, and he held onto it with tight hands as he knocked on the door.

“Come on in,” a voice called. 

As Alexander stepped inside, Jefferson was on the phone. “Just stop being so stubborn and head home,” he was saying, a hand cupping the mouthpiece. “You’re going to pass the cold to everyone, and the last thing I need is for Franklin to start sneezing in the middle of the court.”

Dark eyes flickered to Alexander. Jefferson jerked his head towards the chairs facing him. Alexander stood where he was.

“Don’t you even dare,” Jefferson continued, lips twitching up slightly. “I appreciate it, but he’s literally right here eavesdropping on my conversation with you. So I have to hang up. Go home and take care of yourself.”

“It’s not eavesdropping when you invited me in while you’re still on the phone,” Alexander said the moment Jefferson put the phone back into the cradle. 

“Better eavesdropping than lying,” Jefferson said. He kicked his feet back, spinning once around his swivel chair before he stopped its movement with a foot. He raised a slow eyebrow. “And that was exactly what you did, wasn’t it? Counsellor Hamilton.”

The anger surged up in him. Alexander gritted his teeth around it as he strode forward. He practically slammed himself into a chair – earning him the rise of the other eyebrow – and dropped his bag to the ground with a heavy thud.

“Let’s get down to business,” he said, unbuttoning his jacket belatedly. He kept his eyes on Jefferson. “I want you to offer a plea bargain to my client.”

Jefferson blinked. Then he threw his head back and laughed, a cackle almost loud enough to be called maniacal. Alexander expected that reaction, of course, but the sound itself was so goddamned _grating_ that he was clenching his fists before he knew it.

Leaning forward, Jefferson dropped his elbows onto the desk. His laughter died as quickly as it started. “Now why would I do that?” he drawled. “Unless you haven’t noticed, I’m _winning_ this case.”

“So the innocence of the defendant matters nothing to you?” Alexander threw out. “You’re just concerned about winning?”

Something strange and dark flickered over Jefferson’s face, gone before Alexander could pinpoint what it was. He linked his fingers together before he shook his head, theatrically slow. “That’s not answering the question,” he said, practically half in sing-song.

Alexander grabbed his phone from his pocket. He unlocked it, and slammed it down onto the desk. “That’s your answer.”

Unlike what he had imagined of this scenario, Jefferson didn’t immediately grab for his phone. He only continued to look at Alexander, gaze weighted and practically accusing. Alexander scowled, and tapped on his upside-down phone a few times.

Then he slid it further down the desk. “Look,” he barked. When Jefferson continued staring at him, he met that gaze.

Slowly, Jefferson’s eyes flickered downwards as if that small movement took all of his effort. Alexander could see the _precise_ moment when he registered what he was seeing: the smug smirk fell off of his face, and his critical eyes went wide and shocked. The video had been set to an unending loop, and he counted the seconds until the third loop was finished and Jefferson still wasn’t moving.

“I received this from an anonymous source,” Alexander said. The lie tasted of burning plastic on his tongue, but he forged on anyway. “They called themselves ‘a concerned citizen’. There are, I think, several reasons for them to be concerned.”

Jefferson still wasn’t moving, wasn’t speaking. Given his animation just a couple of minutes prior, the sight was eerie.

“The press will eat this up if they ever get their hands on it,” Alexander continued. “Hell of a headline, isn’t it? District Attorney Assigning Himself a Case with Major Conflict of Interests. A demotion is, I think, the best thing you can hope for.

A memory came to him, unbidden: Madison’s fingers trailing over Jefferson’s face, touching him like he was a piece of art made flesh; touching Jefferson like he was trying to memorise all over again the treasured features. Jefferson’s head, tilted backwards, lips red and swollen, chest heaving, all from a couple of kisses.

Neither were in the video.

“When this came to me,” Alexander spoke again, because the silence was suffocating, “the video was longer. It started off when you first arrived at the gate, in fact. I edited it before showing you.” He still had the full video.

Lifting his eyes, Jefferson met his. “Am I,” he said, voice cold and sharp, “supposed to thank you for that?”

“This could’ve been so much worse for you,” Alexander said.

Jefferson’s fingers touched the screen of the phone. He pushed it back towards Alexander, and said, in the same chilling voice, “You’re a bad liar, Counsellor Hamilton.”

Alexander went completely still. He didn’t take the phone. “What do you mean?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

“This wasn’t sent to you by some anonymous ‘concerned citizen’,” Jefferson said. Despite his tone, Alexander could practically hear the quote marks in his speech. “You took this yourself, didn’t you?”

Of course Jefferson wouldn’t be fooled. Alexander’s hands were still on his lap, beneath the table; he clenched them tighter, digging nails into his palm. “You can’t prove that,” he said. “And the press won’t care.”

“Ah, the press,” Jefferson drawled. “Why do you think they’ll be interested in something like this?”

“Are you fucking with me right now?” Alexander blurted. When Jefferson only leaned back against his chair, steepling his fingers like a villain from a B-grade movie, he shook his head, hard. 

“This is the highest-profile case in New York in years,” he said, practically spitting out the words. “One of the lawyers, the District Attorney no less, having such a massive conflict of interest? You’re an idiot if you don’t think that they’ll be _interested_.”

“You’re assuming that they’ll understand what this even means,” Jefferson said. Slowly, like Alexander was a child. “That they’ll come to the same conclusion as you did.”

“It’s pretty fucking obvious,” Alexander said.

“Only to those in the know,” Jefferson shot back immediately. He shook his head, wild curls falling into his face. “And you, Councillor Hamilton, are in the know. It’s a little hypocritical of you to accuse _me_ of conflicts of interests, isn’t it?”

At this moment, Alexander hated Jefferson more than he had hated anyone else. More than himself, even. He gritted his teeth, slamming his hands on the table and leaning forward.

“It’s a little hypocritical,” he said, voice low and poisonous, “for you to accuse anyone of hypocrisy.”

His hand swept out around him. “The plate on your door. Your suits. How much do they _cost_ , Mr Jefferson? How much do you spend on life’s little comforts when you profess to be the _champion of the working classes_?”

Jefferson flinched as if the words were a physical blow. His palms slapped together, a sharp and sudden crack, as his hands clasped each other so tight that his knuckles turned white. Lightning flashed across those dark eyes. 

Alexander hadn’t expected a reaction, much less one as strong as this. But he didn’t have long to savour his triumph, because Jefferson spoke again, in the same drawl as before as if nothing had happened:

“That’s not relevant to the case.” He looked Alexander up and down. “Your hypocrisy, Counsellor, _is_.”

“You’re working off conjecture,” Alexander said, struggling to keep his voice though he felt a layer of filth sticking to his skin from Jefferson’s eyes. “You have no evidence. That’s not going to hold up anywhere.”

Especially since he was pretty sure that Jefferson didn’t bug his own office on a regular basis. The man had too many secrets he did not want leaked to ever risk such a thing. Besides, if this conversation was published in the press, Jefferson would look just as bad, if not worse. 

Taking a deep breath, Alexander stood. “Before you waste your breath, Mr District Attorney,” he emphasised the title, “let me assure you that I am aware that blackmail is a crime. However, you will have to submit evidence of its occurrence in order for it to be reported as such.”

It might have been nearly ten years, but Alexander never forgot, and it still felt so incredibly strange to be on the opposite side.

He didn’t like the feeling. 

“I don’t think you’d like that to happen,” he finished, voice soft. The plot depended entirely on Jefferson not wanting for that particular video to get out to the press. Not just while the trial was going on, but for years. The Weeks trial would set a precedent, after all, and if Jefferson was shown to have a conflict of interest while in the midst of arguing for the prosecution even years after the trial was over…

Alexander’s mouth stretched up into a smile that hurt his cheeks.

“A plea bargain for my client,” he repeated, meeting Jefferson’s now-hooded eyes. “That’s all I ask.”

Turning, he picked up his backpack. He swiped his phone off of the table and was halfway to the door when Jefferson spoke again.

“It’s a pity that you’re so much better at this than you are at court,” he said, that irritating Southern accent stronger than ever.

Stopping in his tracks, Alexander turned his head back. He pasted on the same smile he’d given to Maggie.

“Whatever it takes to make you give me what I want,” he said. 

The last sight he took of Jefferson was of the man still seated with his hands clasped and hiding his mouth, eyes downcast. He did not look like a man defeated, but Alexander had learned during the last court session to not buy into his appearance.

He left. He didn’t slam the door even though he wanted to.

If there weren’t any dramatic sound effects for a man’s damnation, then there shouldn’t be any for his victory either.

***

_April 15, Friday_

“The defence calls for its second witness. Dr Susanna Rowson, please approach the stand.”

Susanna walked with a stiff gait that wasn’t helped by her ramrod-straight back. Her clothes – a clearly expensive white blouse matched with an A-line skirt – seemed to be hemming her in, dulling the warm sienna of her complexion. Alexander watched as she stepped up to the witness stand, and noted that she looked far more comfortable in the jeans and t-shirt she had been wearing when he’d first met her, when she’d first interviewed Weeks.

Folding his hands on the desk in front of him, he watched as Susanna affirmed that she would tell the truth – she refused the Bible. His eyes scanned the room. Jefferson was sitting behind the prosecutor’s desk, arms crossed. He was wearing a dark maroon suit, the colour nearly black, with a pair of blue studded shoes; as atrocious as usual, really. A plain black silk tie rested on his chest above his navy blue shirt.

Madison’s tie; it had to be, given the flamboyance of the rest of Jefferson’s wardrobe. Alexander felt the same spark of fear mixed with irritation again – did Jefferson have no fear whatsoever? Did he think that _no one_ would recognise that blatant sign of possession he was wearing around his neck? Did he think that _Alexander_ wouldn’t realise?

Maybe he was just overconfident. Maybe he didn’t care about the video getting out. Maybe all of Alexander’s efforts and threats would come to naught.

Or maybe Alexander was simply overanalysing, and the tie did belong to Jefferson. But he doubted it. He took a deep breath, clenching his hands together underneath the desk. He stood when he felt the weight of Franklin’s gaze on him – for a man with small, light eyes, Franklin could certainly make his scrutiny _felt_ – and headed to Susanna.

“Dr Rowson,” he began. “You have been called to court today to testify with regards to the psychological state of Mr Levi Weeks.” He didn’t look at Jefferson as he continued, “What are your credentials?”

“I am a licensed psychiatrist and therapist, specialising in trauma studies,” Susanna said, every word crisp. “My practice is located at 800A Fifth Street in Manhattan. I have published several papers and books with regards to the diagnosis and treatment for patients with post-traumatic stress disorder. I served for fifteen years with the United States Navy as their in-house psychiatrists to identify veterans who exhibit signs of the disorder, and have trained several juniors in the field to follow my methods after I stopped serving the Navy.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Alexander could see Jefferson sit up straighter. He stifled the immediate smirk.

It had been Burr’s idea to call in a psychiatrist to look over Weeks to see if there was anything they could use in her diagnosis for their case. But it was Alexander’s to rehearse with Susanna her answers such that they directly mirrored Dr Ann Elizabeth Bleecker’s. He was certain the jurors hadn’t forgotten – some of them had their eyebrows raised – because Dr Bleecker had stood on that stand only ten days ago.

“Please go ahead with your testimony, Dr Rowson,” Alexander said, stepping back.

“Very well,” Susanna nodded. She turned away from Alexander and addressed the jury – something that was entirely her own idea.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” her eyes glanced upwards and left to Franklin, “Your Honour, I have had the privilege to attend to Mr Levi Weeks for an hour once a week for the last six weeks. Our first session was on March 2, and our last was two days ago on Wednesday, April 13. Either Counsellor Hamilton or Counsellor Burr were present during the sessions, though I had them stay in a separate room such that Mr Weeks could have privacy. As I have been brought in specifically for this case, patient-doctor confidentiality does not apply.” 

Long ago, when Alexander was taking his first case, Washington had told him: “Don’t ever forget that your jury would always be laypeople. They carry the same ideas and assumptions as every layperson. Don’t overload them with jargon and, more important, always dismantle assumptions that might bias them against your witnesses from the very beginning.”

It was good advice. Alexander had followed it through all of his cases, and this one was no exception.

“During my sessions with Mr Weeks,” Susanna continued, her eyes sliding across the room to look at Levi, “I have observed him behaving in ways that are symptomatic of post-traumatic stress disorder.” 

At that point, Weeks’s hands began to shake. He ducked his head down, clenching them together and biting his lip hard. Alexander’s stomach twisted itself into knots at the sight. He kept his hands relaxed by his side.

“Mr Weeks’s primary symptom is his avoidance of the subject,” Susanna said, placing her hands on top of the stand and leaning upon the wood, eyes fixed upon the panel of jurors. “Throughout all six sessions I had with him, any mention of the night of January 1 would have him reflexively changing the subject. I say ‘reflexively’, because I made him promise during the third session to put in his best effort to not avoid the subject during the fourth. Yet he has done so anyway.”

She took a breath, and Alexander took the chance to cut in like he had told her he would. “Do you mind elaborating on exactly how Mr Weeks avoided the topic, Dr Rowson?”

“Of course,” she said, inclining her head towards him before turning back to the jury. “The first mention of the date had him changing the subject. When I had persisted on the subject, he began to shake his head and mutter.” She paused. “He kept on muttering ‘no, no, no’ while his body began to tremble so hard that I thought he was seizing up. At this point, if I refused to let up, he would start to yell – still ‘no, no, no’ – while hiding his head between his arms and curling into a ball. A common defensive posture.”

When Alexander glanced at Weeks, the man was doing _precisely_ what she had described. Except that he was bent in half by the waist instead of curling into a ball, but that was more due to the cuffs than his intention to deviate from her description. The knot twisted harder.

“Furthermore,” Susanna spoke up again. “I interviewed his sister Ms Ezrine Weeks regarding his behaviour prior to January 1. She told me that he was extroverted, optimistic, always eager to get to know new people and interact with them, and extremely trusting. If that was true – and I have no reason to believe that she would lie – then Mr Weeks’s current behaviour was a very marked change. He refused to see me at first because I was a stranger, he mumbled whenever he spoke, and he told me during our last session – when he finally learned to trust me – that he believed that he would be judged to be guilty even though he believed in his own innocence.”

Taking another breath, Susanna tucked a lock of dark, curly hair behind her ear. “Marked change of behaviour is also a symptom of trauma. Mr Weeks also spoke during our last session together about the recurring nightmares he had regarding that night he was arrested, and confessed to me that he could not remember very much of that very night.”

Jefferson, Alexander noticed, was twirling his pen around on his fingers and tapping the end of it against his mouth. He hadn’t written down a single word. 

“In all, Mr Weeks exhibited several behaviours symptomatic of post-traumatic stress disorder.” She started her fingers off, “A persistent avoidance of trauma stimuli, in this case the very date itself; traumatic nightmares; an inability to recall key features of the event; a marked change of behaviour that includes negative emotions and beliefs, alienation, and constant fear of his surroundings and all those around him.”

Tucking that same stray lock behind her ear again, Susanna gave the jury a thin smile. “Eight symptoms, ladies and gentlemen. I have no qualms whatsoever with diagnosing him to be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Weeks was started to rock himself back and forth, back and forth.

“Thank you,” Alexander murmured, tearing his eyes away from the defendant back to the witness. “What does your diagnosis inform us about Mr Weeks’s guilt?”

For the first time since he had sat down at the defence bench, Burr moved: he linked his hands together, and leaned forward. Alexander instinctively shoved down the triumph he felt.

“Trauma by definition is unexpected,” Susanna said, pushing herself back from the stand and standing straight again. “If Mr Weeks had premediated Mr Sands’s murder – like the charge of murder by first-degree implies – then he would not be suffering from PTSD.”

Alexander cocked his head at her. “Is there any possibility that he might have premediated the murder and yet not have expected the outcome, and hence the actual event gave him a traumatic shock?”

“There is not,” Susanna said, shaking her head. “He exhibits too many symptoms of the disorder – the PTSD affects him far too much – for the trauma to be caused solely by…” She hesitated, and looked at Weeks.

He was still rocking back and forth.

“Please continue, Dr Rowson,” Alexander prompted.

She sighed. “To be caused by the sight of Mr Sands dying,” she said. “His nightmares involved the night of January 1 in its entirety. Not any particular portion of it.”

“I see,” Alexander said. He glanced at the jury and almost smiled: while a few of them still looked doubtful, many were already turning towards Weeks and looking at him with sympathy. He tried to not notice how much the sight of their looks turned his stomach; tried to ignore the bile at the back of his throat.

Swallowing, he turned back to Susanna again. “How sure are you of that?” he asked.

“Ninety-eight percent,” she said, as honest as she had been when Alexander first asked her. She refused to give the number as a hundred – she had promised to not lie. Alexander had agonised over her decision until he realised that he could use it.

“What about the other two percent?” he asked.

“That is for the very slim possibility that Mr Weeks has been lying or acting during our sessions,” Susanna said, shrugging. “However, since there were six sessions, and I am an expert in the field, the possibility is very, very small.”

Jefferson was starting to frown. He dropped his pen back onto his desk, and started to play with the end of his tie. Alexander knew why: not only was he aping Jefferson in this cross-examination, he was playing like Burr as well – pointing out possible weaknesses and having Susanne address them directly. Before Jefferson could do it.

He stifled the urge to smirk.

“Doesn’t your position as an expert mean that your opinion might be biased?” he asked.

Susanna snorted, shaking her head. She might have expected the question, but it was still ludicrous to her – all the better. “My expertise in the field of trauma studies mean that I am more experienced at spotting out lies and pretence,” she said, voice tart. “There have been plenty of cases in which my clients tried to pull the wool over my eyes. This isn’t one of them. Mr Weeks’s list of symptoms is practically textbook perfect.”

 _But it is_ , a voice whispered in Alexander’s head. _But it is, and you were just so completely taken in by it that you haven’t noticed_. He told the voice to shut up.

“Besides,” Susanna continued, a dry note entering her voice. “I am staking much of my reputation upon my diagnosis of Mr Weeks here. My agreement to testify is already proof of the strength of my diagnosis, and I have believed that Mr Weeks is suffering from PTSD since my first session with him. To an expert eye, it is very obvious.”

Several of the jurors were nodding along with her words. This time, Alexander allowed himself to smile. “Thank you, Dr Rowson.” 

His gaze turned to Franklin. “No more questions from the defence, Your Honour,” he said, and walked back to the defence bench.

Burr’s fingers were tapping silently on the wood as Alexander took his seat. Dark eyes turned towards him, and there was just a hint of a smile on those thin lips as he leaned over and said, “You’re finally earning that reputation you have.”

It was a hell of a backhanded compliment, Alexander knew, and yet he felt that warmth blossom in his chest anyway. He picked up his pen, fiddling with it so he didn’t start doing something stupid like grab Burr and drag him out of the courtroom. 

“Thanks,” he said, and tried to not think about how Burr would take every single of those words back if he knew what Alexander was actually doing.

“District Attorney Jefferson,” Franklin said. “The witness is yours.”

Alexander blinked, tearing his eyes away from Burr. Jefferson was still seated, long legs stretched out, even though it was obviously his turn at cross-examination. He was chewing the end of his cheap pen, eyes unfocused. Then, as Alexander watched, he seemed to come back to himself, and stood up from his chair in a single fluid motion. His pen clattered down onto the bench.

“My apologies, Your Honour,” he said as he walked towards Susanna.

Her gaze on him was a mixture of apprehension and mild curiosity. Alexander had assured her that they had covered all the possible bases that Jefferson could attack, but it didn’t seem that she was convinced.

“Dr Rowson,” Jefferson said, in that soft voice that Alexander was starting to realise was his standard for cross-examining opposing witnesses. “Your specialisation is in trauma studies, correct?”

“Yes,” Susanna nodded.

“How high is your percentage of misdiagnoses?” 

Susanna drew up, insulted, and Jefferson chuckled. “Forgive me, but our jury,” he swept his hand out in their direction, “and our judge,” he nodded to Franklin, “deserve to know.”

“I have to practicing for the past twenty-two years,” Susanna asked, voice tight and words crisp. “Throughout that time, I’ve only misdiagnosed two percent of my patients. Twenty-one out of the one thousand, one hundred, and thirty-four patients that I have had the privilege to meet and treat. None of those misdiagnoses have happened in the last five years.”

“Very impressive,” Jefferson nodded. He paused, as if to allow the numbers to sink in, before he said, “Is there any possibility that your record has biased you towards Mr Weeks’s case?”

Before Alexander could leap to his feet, Burr beat him to it. “Objection,” Burr said, voice low and smooth. “The prosecution has asked an argumentative _and_ leading question.”

Jefferson’s eyes slid towards them. He was still smiling in that pleasant way that made Alexander’s skin crawl, but there was an unmistakeable hint of smugness in his dark eyes.

“Sustained,” Franklin said, the word escaping him along with his exhale. He shook his head. “District Attorney Jefferson, rephrase your question. You should know better.”

That was the first reprimand Franklin had given throughout this entire trial. The jurors’ head swerved around, and they stared wide-eyed at him – Alexander would have done the same if he wasn’t keeping an eye on Jefferson. And Jefferson, the bastard, was completely unfazed, shrugging and spreading out his hands.

“In your answer to Counsellor Hamilton’s question, you stated that you thought it obvious that Mr Weeks is suffering from PTSD since your first session with him, yes?”

“Yes,” Susanna said, nodding sharply.

“How much of that judgment was based upon the fact that you haven’t been wrong for the past five years?” Jefferson asked.

Suddenly, Alexander understood Franklin’s exasperation: Jefferson liked to use the defence’s objections to prop up his argument. He used every single sustained objection to rephrase his question into something more damning while obeying fully the rules of the court. And as the defence had already objected to the last question, they couldn’t object again without looking desperate. And with their objection, Jefferson’s rephrased question increased in validity in the jury’s eyes.

The bastard was a fucking spider. One with his web cast not only over the witness, but the entire courtroom itself. A twitch of the fingers and they all danced to his tune. 

No wonder Franklin was getting irritated. Jefferson had woven his traps well enough that Franklin simply _couldn’t_ overrule the defence’s objections without looking like he was siding with the prosecution; without giving the jury the impression that he believed more in Jefferson’s case and subconsciously believing Jefferson more anyway.

Jefferson might be acting according to the rules of court; acting with perfect legality. But those tactics were not merely disrespectful, but _dirty._ Alexander shoved down the urge to just publish the video in its entirety because the man deserved the humiliation that would rain down on him as a result.

Instead, he leaned over and whispered into Burr’s ear, “I fucking hate this guy.”

Burr’s eyes turned towards him, and Alexander saw that they had reached the same conclusion at practically the same time. Burr nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. His lips thinned into a line. “I can see why.”

“Your confidence in your abilities is admirable,” Jefferson was saying. Caught up in his thoughts, Alexander had completely missed Susanna’s answer. “May I then ask: what is the profile of most of your patients, Dr Rowson?”

Susanna’s shoulders were stiff again, and there was a muscle ticking at the corner of her jaw. She breathed out hard and obviously relaxed before she answered, “The majority were veterans from the Navy.”

“Your specialisation is, then, with war-related trauma?” Jefferson asked.

“The vast majority,” Susanna repeated, emphasising the words. Alexander wished he could tell her to stop looking so angry – she was hurting her own credibility. “I have also worked with rape survivors and adult survivors of childhood domestic abuse.”

Something very odd happened: at the word _rape_ , Jefferson’s hand twitched, fingers curling inwards. It happened again when the word _abuse_ left Susanna’s mouth. Then he reached up and tugged on his tie. Just once. 

If Alexander didn’t know better, he would think that Jefferson was having a visceral flashback at those words. He scoffed at his own thoughts. No way.

He tried to not notice how Burr beside him had gone even stiffer than usual.

“Pardon me for saying so,” Jefferson said, voice silkily polite again, “but those are very different circumstances from Mr Weeks’.”

“Even though the traumatic experiences might vary, the symptoms of PTSD are very similar across the board,” Susanna stated flatly.

“Of course,” Jefferson nodded. “I’m not disputing your expertise on that.” Even though he had been literally disputing that expertise not five minutes ago. 

He paused. A couple of jurors leaned in, pen poised above paper. “My question, then, Dr Rowson, is this,” Jefferson continued. “Given that all of your previous clients were almost all victims, how can you be so sure that exhibiting PTSD symptoms meant that Mr Weeks is innocent?”

Alexander reached out for Burr at the same time he felt Burr’s hand on his arm. They glanced at each other, nodded in unison, and turned back. They weren’t going to give Jefferson the pleasure of an objection. Not this time.

Slowly, their hands fell back to their sides.

Susanna was staring down at her hands, a heavy crease between her brows. “I don’t understand your question,” she said finally.

“Let me clarify,” Jefferson said, voice even smoother than before. “You stated that your victims were primarily veterans and survivors of rape and abuse. They are all victims. Am I correct?”

“I fail to see how our war veterans could be classified as victims,” Susanna said slowly.

“Bear with me then,” Jefferson said. “What are the common traumas that war veterans suffer from?”

“Most of the time,” Susanna started, still frowning as if she didn’t understand what he was getting at, “our veterans suffered from the trauma of transition. The intensity of the warzone makes it difficult for them to adjust to daily life. There are other causes too: trauma from capture, trauma from their experiences in the warzone itself… Many different causes.”

“Would you say that any of them _deserved_ the PTSD that they suffered?” Jefferson asked.

“Of course not,” Susanna blurted out. “That’s a ridiculous question.”

“Yet it is one I must ask,” Jefferson said, voice growing more quiet. “Perhaps I have phrased myself poorly, Dr Rowson. Would you agree that none of your prior patients were not directly responsible for the trauma they suffered through?”

Jefferson hadn’t received the objection he’d wanted, and yet he still managed to twist things to his design anyway. Alexander’s hands twitched underneath the wooden top of the defence bench. He resisted the urge to kick it.

“They…” Susanna paused, and then shook her head. “No. Definitely not. The guilt they feel is always unjustified.”

“I see,” Jefferson nodded. He took a breath, eyes scanning the room. His lips quirked upwards.

“Mr Weeks is directly responsible for his own trauma, Dr Rowson,” Jefferson said. “No matter how much you avoided stating it directly, Mr Weeks killed Mr Sands. Whatever guilt he might end up aiming towards himself is entirely justified. A man died by his hands. That fact is undeniable.”

He paused, and cocked his head. “You have never had a patient whose guilt is even close to justified, Dr Rowson,” he said. “This would be your first ever case. Can you then still state with absolute confidence that Mr Weeks’s PTSD is a sign of his innocence?”

Susanna’s frown deepened again. She didn’t speak for long moments. The silence stretched out in court, and Alexander tried to not jiggle his leg with impatience.

“No,” she said finally. Her voice echoed in the suddenly cavernous courtroom. “No, I cannot.”

“Then your diagnosis of his PTSD is irrelevant to the case,” Jefferson said, because he was a smug asshole who had to drive the point in even when everyone obviously caught it. His eyes turned towards Franklin, and nodded.

“The prosecution has no more questions, Your Honour.” He headed back to his bench.

Once Jefferson was seated and Susanna was led back to the witnesses’ waiting area, Franklin leaned back on his seat. He banged his gavel twice.

“Court will adjourn for a two-hour recess,” he said. There was a second witness for the day; one of Weeks’s old college roommates; one of those whose start-ups Weeks invested in.

“Dismissed.”

Alexander slumped back to his chair. He rubbed his face hard with his hand. “Shit.”

With that performance, Jefferson didn’t seem to be at all amenable to the deal, after all. The case was slipping out of their hands faster than water through sand.

*  
_  
_ Immediately, Aaron reached out, grabbed Hamilton’s wrist and pulling his hand away from his face. “Don’t start showing weakness now,” he hissed. 

Then he snatched his hand back and straightened. Jefferson was walking over to their bench, his eyes hooded and hand twisting in his tie. 

“Can I speak to the two of you privately, Counsellors?” he asked.

Aaron blinked up at him. Beside him, he could see Hamilton doing exactly the same, except more exaggerated. Aaron resisted the urge to reach over to snap his mouth back closed, in case he caught a fly under his tongue.

“Why?” Hamilton blurted out. “You want to brag about what you’ve just done?”

Jefferson cocked his head. His eyes rested on Hamilton, and then slid very slowly to Aaron himself. Hamilton twitched all of a sudden, as if that was some sort of signal.

“We have two hours to kill,” Hamilton said, turning to him. “Might as well spend some of it listening to him.”

Resisting the urge to narrow his eyes, Aaron looked at Hamilton, then at Jefferson. The latter looked almost bored with one hand shoved inside his pocket and one brow lifted, but Aaron had been watching him for long enough to recognise that the movement of the other hand – twisting and tugging at Madison’s tie – was far more reliable a guide. While Hamilton looked eager and his eyes were very bright. Fever-bright. 

Something was happening here that Aaron wasn’t a part of. And now he was being invited into it.

“Alright,” he said, dragging the word out. “There’s a holding room at the back that will serve well enough.”

He waited for Jefferson’s protest – surely a small, dark holding cell wasn’t good enough to a man like him, so used to luxury. But Jefferson nodded and continued standing there, waiting. And Hamilton was practically vibrating in his seat.

“Come on, then,” Aaron said finally. He stood up from his seat and headed out of the courtroom. Hamilton walked a little too fast, practically jogging behind him. Jefferson’s every step was heavy and deliberate, echoing slightly down the still-empty hallway.

He brought them to the holding room for the defendant of the courtroom adjacent to their current one. There was no trial for it today, so it was empty and unlocked. The place was small: a section of barely six feet by ten feet separated from another of the same size by bars. There weren’t any chairs.

“Nice place you’ve picked,” Jefferson said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He didn’t lock it. “Very atmospheric.”

His eyes turned to Hamilton. “Very appropriate,” he said, face and voice expressionless.

Hamilton’s hands clenched into fists by his side. He jutted his chin out, practically tiptoeing as he stared up the four or five inches Jefferson had on him – on both of them – into those mocking dark eyes. “What do you want?”

Aaron reached out and closed his hand around Hamilton’s arm. He squeezed, and Hamilton sank back down onto his heels.

Jefferson’s eyes went straight to Aaron’s hand. His eyebrow climbed up his face again with painstaking deliberation. “Ah,” he said; that one word loaded with _knowing_.

Immediately, Aaron cursed himself. He should have known better. Something had happened during the last weekend to make Jefferson’s eyes so sharp, and now he had given the man something to hold over their heads. It didn’t matter that Jefferson was in the same straits.

No, it _did_ matter: Jefferson didn’t know that both of them knew about him and Madison. That was still a card that could be played if this little talk went awry. He dropped his hand.

“So,” Hamilton said, practically spitting out the word. “What do you _want_?”

“Something I’m sure both of you are dying for,” Jefferson drawled. He hooked both thumbs into his pockets, eyes travelling from Hamilton to Aaron. “I’m here to offer a plea bargain.”

“What?” Hamilton’s voice sounded very strange when mixed with his own. 

“A plea bargain,” Jefferson repeated, waving his hand. “If your client,” he rolled his tongue around the word, making it sound filthy, “agrees to plead guilty to manslaughter, then the charge will be changed to manslaughter.”

That was… that didn’t make any _sense_. Jefferson was winning this case. Every straw that they were grasping at had been broken by him. He had no reason whatsoever to offer a plea bargain. Aaron stared.

“You fucking _bastard_ ,” Hamilton snarled. Aaron grabbed his arm again before he could lunge at Jefferson, pulling him back.

Jefferson’s dark eyes rested on Hamilton. Despite his blank eyes and face, contempt rolled off him in waves, thick and heavy and completely inexplicable. Then he jerked his head, gaze skittering off of Aaron to stare at the wall above his head.

“I’ll leave the two of you to think about it,” he told them. “Talk to your client. Do your defence lawyer thing.”

He turned, heading for the door. Aaron unstuck his tongue. “When do you want an answer?”

“Monday,” Jefferson said. He left the room. The door clicked softly behind him.

Then Hamilton slammed a fist against the wood, making it rattle. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Goddammit. Fuck.”

Reaching out, Aaron closed his hand around that fist before it could hit the wall again. He grabbed Hamilton’s shoulder with his other hand, spinning the man around and dragging him away from the door – the last thing he needed was for someone to come looking in thinking that something was happening. 

Then he slammed Hamilton against the wall.

“What,” he said, enunciating every consonant, “did you _do_?”

Jefferson’s expressionlessness and insinuating little glances weren’t a show meant for his benefit. No, Hamilton was the sole intended audience. Aaron was just a puppet for that little play. He hated being a puppet.

“I,” Hamilton breathed. “We have to… I have to…” He shook his head hard. “Burr, you have to understand. I have to keep my promise. I need to keep my promise.”

The promise he’d made to Ezrine Weeks, all the back in January. Aaron swallowed down the _I told you so_ and squeezed Hamilton’s shoulder harder. “You’re not answering the question,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level.

“You have to _understand_ ,” Hamilton repeated, desperation bright in his eyes. He stared down at his hands. “You… Listen to me. You have to understand. You have to try to understand.”

The information Hamilton had wanted from him. _Jefferson is Madison’s sub_. Jefferson’s eyes on Hamilton when he said that this holding cell was appropriate. Jefferson’s hands holding onto Madison’s tie like a safety blanket. That inexplicable plea bargain.

Abruptly, Aaron let go. Hamilton. Hamilton slid down, curling up against the wall. His eyes remained on Aaron, but the sight of them only made the disgust within him surge even higher.

“You’re blackmailing him,” he said, voice soft. “You took the information I gave to you as a _reward_ ,” he flicked the filthy word out between his teeth, “and you used it to blackmail him.”

Madison’s tie on Jefferson’s neck. Madison’s posture on Jefferson’s body, just last week. Madison written in every inch of Jefferson’s skin, a subtle claim that nonetheless screamed _mine, mine, mine_. Anyone who tried to lay a hand on Jefferson would have to answer to Madison. 

Did Hamilton realise where this would lead? Did he realise that he wasn’t only playing with Jefferson’s fire, but _Madison’s_ too, and Madison was far more dangerous than Jefferson could even hope to be?

Aaron dragged a hand over his face. Hamilton was still staring at him with those large, pleading eyes.

“What did you do,” he repeated.

Hamilton grabbed for his phone. His hands shook as he pressed a few buttons, and then he held the phone up. Aaron took it. The screen was showing a video, dark.

“There’s no sound,” Hamilton said. Aaron nodded, and pressed play. He watched it. All fifteen minutes of it while Hamilton’s eyes remained on his face.

“I cut out the first part,” Hamilton said when Aaron lowered the phone to stare at him. “Only… only the second bit. I only showed him the second bit. But I have the whole thing and…”

The phone went clattering to the floor. The video was looping back to the start but Aaron wasn’t interested anymore. He reached out and grabbed Hamilton by the lapels, dragging him to his feet. His arms strained, screamed, but he shook Hamilton as hard as he could anyway.

“What the fuck were you _thinking_?” he hissed, barely remembering to keep his voice low. “Do you know what you’ve _done_? Not just the laws you’ve broken, but the people you’ve pissed off?”

“You have to understand,” Hamilton babbled, hands clawing at Aaron’s forearms. “I have to keep my promise. I have to.”

Aaron didn’t ask why; he didn’t need to. There wasn’t anything left for Hamilton in this world except for his job and the possible advancement that winning this very high-profile case could give him. And Hamilton had never taken well to failure. Not even once.

He understood. That didn’t lower the tide of rage any.

“You might have gotten us a plea bargain,” he said, quiet and low. “But do you know how this would look? Jefferson is winning. He’s slaughtering our case. It looks suspicious if he offers a plea bargain now. Franklin won’t buy it.” The judge was far too clever and experienced to buy it. “And even if he does…”

Dragging Hamilton closer, he whispered into his ear: “Do you realise that Madison works in this building alongside Franklin?” he hissed out. “Who do you think Franklin would side with, huh? His fellow esteemed judge, or the two defence lawyers who are resorting to illegal surveillance and _blackmail_?”

When he let go, Hamilton’s legs folded again, dropping him down onto his ass. He drew his knees up and pressed his forehead against them, trembling.

“I know all that,” Hamilton whispered. “I know that, Burr.”

“Do you know what this will do to _me_ as well?” Aaron snarled, hands clenched tight as he stared down at Hamilton. “Everything you do will involve _me_ as well.”

“No,” Hamilton shook his head. He looked more like a child in this moment than he ever had. “I didn’t- that’s not- I did all this on my _own_.”

“We’re _co-counsels_ ,” Aaron bit out, and squashed down the more personal betrayal that was coiling inside him. “Did you forget that part while you were playing spy, Hamilton?”

“You’re not supposed to be involved,” Hamilton said. He looked up to Aaron, eyes dry but the plea so bright in them that it resembled tears. “You’re supposed to… you’re supposed to be _safe_. You and… You and Sarah and Theo.”

How dared he bring Aaron’s sister and daughter into this? They weren’t involved, they had never been involved in the lawyer part of his life. He had made sure of that—

This wasn’t just about Hamilton’s anxiety over his job, Aaron suddenly realised. The desperation was far too raw, and there was… there was _terror_ writ all over Hamilton’s curled-up frame. An awfully visceral terror that Aaron hadn’t noticed before this because he had been so angry.

Pieces fell into place. Hamilton hadn’t spoken about Weeks’s innocence recently. He had left Aaron to deal with Weeks after every court session. 

Slowly, he dropped down to his own knees. Hamilton didn’t look up, so Aaron reached out first and took those hands. He pressed his nails deep into Hamilton’s palms, making the man jerk hard.

“What did you find out?” he asked when Hamilton’s wide eyes were fixed on him. “What did you find out about Levi Weeks?”

It was a gamble, but Aaron could see it pay off immediately: Hamilton practically flung himself away from him at the sound of the name. He tried to pull his hands away but Aaron held on tight.

“Don’t you dare keep anything from me,” Aaron said, his voice tight and low. “Tell me. Unless you’d rather I make you.”

Hamilton squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t want to,” he stammered out. “I…You’re supposed to be safe. Only one soul to sell to the demon at the crossroads, Burr. Only one soul and it’s not supposed to be yours.”

Soul and demon and crossroads. Aaron stared, uncomprehending. No further explanation seemed forthcoming because Hamilton was starting to shake again.

Aaron sighed. He let go of Hamilton’s hands – the man immediately drew them to his chest – before he stood up and headed for the door. He locked it, and then went back to his co-counsel.

He dragged Hamilton’s face up with one hand tight around his jaw. Then he drew his other arm back and slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand.

Hamilton’s head jerked hard to his side. He gasped, head lolling backwards. Aaron studied him, keeping himself as dispassionate as possible, before he slapped him again. On the other cheek.

This time, he hit hard enough to make the crack of flesh on flesh echo in the small room.

“Focus,” he said, pulling Hamilton’s head forward before he could smack the back of it against the wall. “Look at me.”

When Hamilton did, Aaron’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t appreciate being treated like a puppet with some excuse of being protected,” he stated flatly. “Either you tell me, or I’ll force it out of it at some point. It’s your choice, Hamilton.”

Dark eyes stared at him, blank and fogged. Then Hamilton blinked, his neck growing lax. Aaron sighed again as he inched forward, letting Hamilton’s forehead land on his shoulder.

For some reason, he found himself rubbing circles between those bony shoulderblades. It was like his hand had a mind of its own. He didn’t try to stop it while he waited for Hamilton’s answer.

“Phone,” Hamilton said, voice hoarse. “Give me my phone.”

Aaron put his hand on those thin shoulders and shoved Hamilton backwards, propping him up against the wall. Then he stood up and grabbed the phone he dropped. He handed it to Hamilton, who unlocked it and tapped at the screen.

Then he handed it back to Aaron. It was a sound file, nearly an hour long. Hamilton had adjusted it such that it started at the seven minute mark. Hamilton dug into his pants pocket, and drew out a pair of earphones with its wires tangled together. He tugged the knots apart and handed them over.

“You have to understand,” Hamilton said again. Aaron looked at him. Then he turned away, leaning against the wall. He put the earphones on, and then pressed play.

“ _I was hoping I’d get to talk to you soon._ ” Weeks’s voice.

“ _Yeah? Why’s that?_ ” Hamilton’s.

Was this during a visit to Weeks that Hamilton didn’t tell him about? Aaron opened his mouth, halfway to confronting Hamilton about it when he heard Weeks say, “ _The right of individuals to make decisions regarding the bodies that have been signed over to them_.”

What?

Something must have shown on his face, because Hamilton nodded. He jerked his head away and buried his face between his knees again. His hands clenched and unclenched around his shins.

Aaron kept listening. He stared at the phone, watching the minutes and seconds tick by as Weeks’s voice crawled inside him and slowly turned him into stone. Bile was crawling up his throat and he couldn’t even bring himself to swallow. 

There was something else, too: a sudden tidal wave of admiration that grew whenever he heard Hamilton’s voice, replying to that… that _monster_ with such calm when Aaron was sure that all Hamilton wanted to do at the time was to curl up into a ball like he was doing right now. It felt warm. He clung onto it.

Then Weeks’s voice in the recording said: _“He was my favourite doll_.”

The words weren’t the same. But the tone was.

 _God, you’re so pretty_.

Stone broke and shattered into a thousand pieces. Cracks in the closet wall.

Cracks.

Bile in his throat, choking him. A loud clatter, a sudden pain in both ears. Wires tangled around his fingers and he shoved it all off, pushed it away. But the voice still remained, the voices were still there. Blending, melding together.

 _Pretty doll, pretty doll, pretty doll_.

The holding cell disappeared. He was not on his knees; he was flat on his back, Paterson’s soft bed and silky sheets beneath him and Paterson looming over him. He _was_ on his knees, the hard floors of the dorm beneath him, Paterson’s cock in his mouth, choking him. Paterson’s hand on his cheek, circling and circling. 

_You’re so pretty_.

More cracks. Another phantom, hovering, stepping into view.

 _People need help and guidance_ , Weeks’s voice said, light. _Look towards God and repent for your sins_. His uncle’s voice- no, he wasn’t Aarons’ uncle. He was Mr Edwards, he must always call him Mr Edwards, he must always remember that he and Sarah were charity cases in the house and he mustn’t embarrass Mr Edwards by being too clever or too stupid. He had to learn to hide and smile, always smile, always be grateful…

Cane in Mr Edwards’s hands, falling. Fire on his back. Fresh blood, his blood. The sizzle of electricity. The smell of burning flesh thick in his nose. Stuttering screams in a voice he had never heard. He knew he hadn’t witnessed this, yet it was real, so dreadfully real…

“Burr!” A frantic voice, coming from far away. “Jesus Christ, Burr! Burr!” Hands on his shoulders. Aaron flailed, trying to get out of the grip. Pain on his cheek.

Knees again. Mr Edwards standing over him, his face in shadows. It was Paterson. It was Weeks. It was…

“ _Aaron_!” Hands grabbing his face. Voice piercing his ears. Aaron gasped for air and retched again, choking on bile even as those hands moved to his back and turned him over.

Sparks on his lip. Burning in his throat. 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” a repeated mutter. Panic clear in that half-familiar, faraway voice. Panic that wasn’t his. Panic that he didn’t cause, not directly. Panic that he could do something about.

The world snapped right back into place just as suddenly as it had left. Doors slamming back shut. The closet was cracked but it still worked, somehow. He would force it to work.

Hamilton’s face swimming in front of him, eyes large and shock painted all over his features. He was on his knees and Aaron was on his stomach. His fingertips hurt. When he turned his head to look at his hands, his nails were broken at some places. There was no blood but the floor was scuffed.

“Let me go,” Aaron said. His voice sounded hoarse. His throat hurt from the acid.

When Hamilton did, Aaron lifted himself up with his elbows on the floor. He slumped against the wall and wiped his mouth shakily with the back of his hand. There was a streak of red, shimmering against his dark skin under the cold fluorescent lights of the holding cell. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton whispered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have showed you. I shouldn’t have… I should have…”

“Wrong,” Aaron croaked out. He cracked open one eye and stared at Hamilton. “You’re apologising for the wrong thing.”

He jabbed his hand towards the phone, lying there face-down on the floor with the earphones in tangles around it. One earbud laid an inch away. “You were going to let that man go off with a manslaughter charge,” he rasped, emphasising the past tense. “That’s what you’re supposed to be apologising for.”

When Hamilton continued to stare at him, confusion writ all over his face, Aaron’s face split into a smile he didn’t feel. It was the same smile he’d learned under Mr Edwards; that he’d perfected with Paterson.

“There have been a couple of bastards in my life,” he said, tone conversational. “That one is worse than both of them added together.” 

Even though he knew he was telling Hamilton more than he had told anyone in his life other than Theodosia, it didn’t seem like a big deal. 

(He quietly put away Theodosia’s ghost back into a different closet than his demons. Those were his precious memories, only to be taken out when he had no other choice.)

“That’s…” Hamilton licked his lips. “But I have to keep my promise.”

Aaron heard his own laugh, hoarse and cold and mirthless, echoing in the room. It didn’t sound like it came from his throat.

“Do you think that anyone would give you a promotion with that?” he asked. His lips twitched upwards. “Can your conscience allow you to take that promotion if it was offered to you?”

Despite Hamilton’s faults, he was honest, so much so that Aaron suspected that he had chosen the completely wrong line of work. Earning something based on this would have eventually killed him. It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’, but ‘when’. 

“I know you better than that,” he finished, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand again. The bleeding had stopped but his lip still ached.

Hamilton stared down at his hands. “But I…” he squeezed his eyes shut. “If… If I don’t have that, Burr, what do I live for?” His shoulders shook, and he pressed a hand over his forehead as he hunched them, curling inwards. “Tell me what I have left to live for.”

There were two things Aaron could do at this point. He could slap Hamilton and tell him to stop being so pathetic. Or he could…

 _We continue doing what we do because our need exceeds the concerns we should be having for those under our care_. What he’d said to Madison a lifetime ago came back to haunt him now. That had never been about needs, after all. That had always been about wants. 

Reaching out, he cupped Hamilton’s face. He dug his thumb into the cheek until he could feel the bone beneath. When Hamilton’s eyes shot open, he met them.

“You have me,” Aaron said. 

It was terribly cliché. It was terribly inappropriate given where they were. Aaron couldn’t bring himself to care about either. He meant those words; he had known how much he meant them for a long time, even though he hadn’t put it into words in some vain attempt to make those feelings less real.

Dark eyes widened even further. Hamilton stopped breathing. Aaron scraped his nail over the skin of that cheek. Felt Hamilton shiver beneath his hand. 

“Listen,” he said quietly. “You’re going to take that phone. Then you’re going to transfer both files to mine. When that’s done, you’re going to delete both of those files. Okay?”

“But,” Hamilton started. Aaron didn’t move, didn’t give into the urge to sink his nail deep into Hamilton’s skin again. He only waited.

Slowly, Hamilton’s eyes closed. His chin dipped down. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Please. Please.”

“Tell me what you’re begging for,” Aaron said. With every word between them, he felt the cracks in the closet close up. Control settled back into his bones.

“Please fix this for me,” Hamilton whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Go on,” Aaron urged. This part wasn’t for him; not anymore.

“Help me,” Hamilton said. His breath caught, a sob wrestling out of him. “Please, Burr. Please help me. I can’t do this on my own.”

How long had it been since Hamilton had said those words? He had cut off contact from all of his friends, practically running away from them because of the wrongs he thought he had done them. How long since he’d had _anyone_ to say those words to?

This was what Hamilton truly deserved. He needed someone to save him from his mistakes and terrible decisions when they slipped too far from his hands.

And if Aaron had someone to save, then the phantoms would stay in their closet, and it would never crack again.

He closed his eyes. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead against Hamilton’s. He breathed out and allowed him to breathe in his inhale.

“Okay,” he said. His hand slipped down to Hamilton’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Now what you’re going do is to open your eyes. Then you take your phone, and do what I told you to do.”

He squeezed again. “I’ll fix this.”

Slowly, Hamilton opened his eyes. He looked at Aaron like he couldn’t believe he was real. When Aaron didn’t move, he nodded. They pulled away for just long enough for Hamilton to grab his phone and do as Aaron had asked. While the files were transferring via Bluetooth, they leaned in again. Breathed in each other’s exhales.

Then Hamilton deleted the files while Aaron watched. Then Aaron transferred the files on his phone to an encrypted folder. They stood up together. Aaron helped to untangle the earphones. Hamilton was practically draped over him. His weight solidified the ground beneath Aaron’s feet.

They walked out of the holding cell and arrived back into the courtroom barely two minutes before Franklin arrived. They didn’t touch each other. They didn’t look at Weeks, either. Hamilton cross-examined the witness. They both watched as Jefferson destroyed another testimony.

It didn’t matter anymore.

When they left the courthouse, they headed back to Hamilton’s apartment. They took whatever case files he had left behind and a few days’ worth of clothes. They took the train to Aaron’s home in silence.

Theo was very happy to see him. Sarah smiled. Hamilton slept in the guestroom. In the middle of the night, he came to Aaron’s. He piled blankets beside Aaron’s bed and slept there instead. He woke Aaron up when the nightmares came. Aaron hadn’t asked him to do it. He was starting to realise that he didn’t have to.

In the morning, Hamilton sat next to him on the bed. Their hands were barely an inch from each other’s when Aaron called Madison to arrange a meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Burr and Hamilton literally took 22 very long chapters before they reached here. And they still have a ways to go. See my thing about names. And, well, Hamilton needs to be saved just like Sally needed to save herself, just like Jefferson couldn’t be saved (Madison really, really tried, and he made everything so much worse). Different dynamics, different needs. (It’d be boring otherwise.)
> 
> I actually don’t have anything else to say about this chapter except that Book IV is unofficially named ‘resolution’. There are still eight more chapters to go before the epilogue, though, because there are a lot of messes to clean up.
> 
> (Also, I know that Sally’s plotline has been neglected for the past couple of chapters. It’s coming back soon. Right now the mess with the bigger priority is with the plotline of the actual case, which has been neglected for a pretty damned long time.)


	23. not ev'ry issue can be settled by committee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closed-door negotiations with those who stand on the opposite side of the lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: discussion of finances of the one percent by someone who has no real idea what she’s talking about, and discussion of abuse.

_April 18, Monday_

Angelica’s office was two floors below his. Thomas stood in front of her door. He took a deep breath and knocked. He waited, clutching the heavy folder tighter to his chest.

“Come in,” she said, sounding distracted.

When he pushed open the door, her side was to him and she was typing on her keyboard. Her eyes slid towards him and narrowed. “You knocked,” she stated, tone practically accusing.

Nearly two years ago, before she left for her sabbatical, Thomas would have usually stridden in without knocking. Thomas shrugged, and her eyes narrowed even further.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Stepping fully into her office, Thomas closed the door behind him and locked it – he didn’t want anyone to interrupt while he was here. Another deep breath, and he looked into those dark, intense eyes.

“To ask for your help,” he said.

She slammed the lid of her laptop closed and turned around fully to face him. “Now that’s a surprise,” she drawled, leaning back against the chair. “Is it about the case?”

“Why would it be about the case?” Thomas asked.

“You approached Franklin after the court session last Friday to put on the table a plea bargain for the defence,” she said, voice crisp and flat at the same time. When Thomas’s eyes widened, she shook her head, and shrugged. “The walls have eyes and ears, Thomas.”

No one had been around when he had spoken to Franklin three days ago. But Thomas didn’t doubt her words. Like almost every lawyer native to New York, she had a hell of a way of picking up information that no one needed to know.

But he shook his head. “That’s not what I’m here about,” he said, walking forward and dropping down into a chair opposite her.

Her eyes glanced down to the folder he placed on the table, then back up to his face. “I heard that you practically had this case in your bag,” she said, almost idly. “Something you want to tell me about what you’re doing?”

He didn’t want to talk about this. He hadn’t come here to talk about this. The case was supposed to be one of the simpler parts of his life right now, and yet the tangled mess that was everything else had caught it in its threads, too. 

Thomas sighed. He pulled off his glasses – he hadn’t bothered with the contacts today – and rubbed his hands over his face. It had been more than a week since Virginia, and the heaviness of New York’s air had crawled back into his lungs, draining his energy until he felt little more than a husk nowadays.

“What would you like me to say?” he asked her, voice slightly muffled behind his hands.

She picked up his glasses, folding them and putting them back on the same spot. Her eyes didn’t leave his. “I remember the last time I offered a plea bargain to a defendant who might lead us to far bigger fish,” she said softly. “You gave me a lecture about the unethical nature of plea bargains. Said that it’s a desperate tactic of someone who is losing.”

Shoulders shaking, Thomas dropped his hands from his face. He remembered that day very well. They ended up yelling at each other in his office, and Angelica had stormed out while slamming the door. The defence team of that case took up the plea bargain, and they did end up catching that bigger fish – one of the heads of a drug cartel that had sunk its fingers into Brooklyn – from that defendant’s information.

“Unethical is a word for it, I suppose,” he said. He picked up his glasses and put them on again, blinking a little as the soft edges of the word sharpened back into focus. “Hamilton has evidence of James and me.”

Angelica blinked. “That’s… good for you, I guess,” she said, sincerity obscured by confusion. “But this is New York City. No one will care about you having a relationship with a man.”

“Not that part,” Thomas said. He tried to not think about Hamilton’s little insinuation that he had also videotaped what happened _before_ Thomas went to his knees. “It’s…” He took a deep breath, and met Angelica’s eyes.

“I know about Wilmot and the Debauchee,” he said, lips crooking upwards slightly. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t be surprised if it had been Wilmot who told Angelica about the existence of the plea bargain. “That part.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Angelica breathed out, eyes wide. Then she flopped backwards onto her chair, staring up to the ceiling. “Jesus Christ, Alexander. What the fuck.”

“You know Hamilton?” Thomas asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” Angelica waved a hand. “Used to know him back in college, actually.” She went to Columbia too, Thomas remembered. “He used to be a pretty good friend. Then he fucked my sister over completely and…” She didn’t need to continue. Anyone who had spent more than a few hours with Angelica would have realised how much she loved her sisters. 

“Which one?” he asked.

“Eliza,” she said. Thomas winced. He might have only met Eliza Schuyler only once or twice, but Angelica always spoke about Eliza in a very different way from Peggy. She spoke about Peggy like she was a lioness speaking about another in her pride, while Eliza she saw more as her only cub.

Her eyes rested on him for a long moment before she spoke again: “Do you want me to talk to him for you?”

“What?” Thomas blurted out before he could think. “Why would you…” he paused. “Weren’t you furious at me?”

“Yeah,” Angelica said, voice dry. “I’m still pissed as all hell, actually. But that doesn’t mean that you deserve being blackmailed. Doesn’t mean that you deserve being outed like that.”

Thomas stared at her. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. His hands clutched at the folder again as a laugh wrestled out of his lungs, making his entire body shake from the silent force of it.

“Even after all I’ve _done_?” he asked.

Angelica didn’t speak for a long moment. Then she sighed. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw her tip her head back to stare at the ceiling again.

“When Alexander fucked my sister over,” she began, “I was so pissed at him. I don’t think ‘pissed’ is even the proper word for it. But…” She shrugged, the motion more helpless than he had ever seen her. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Doesn’t mean that…” Another shrug, and she gave him a wry smile.

“Atrocities done to a bastard are still atrocities, you know what I mean?”

“No,” Thomas said, quite honestly. “I really don’t.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I didn’t think so,” she said. Then she leaned forward, arms on the table as her gaze turned back to him again. “So do you want me to talk to him or not?”

“I…” Thomas paused. “No.”

“Is it because you don’t deserve it?”

Of course she could still see through him so entirely. Thomas’s mouth quirked up into a smile despite himself. “Only partly,” he admitted. “Mostly it’s because James is already taking care of it.”

“James is taking care of it,” Angelica echoed. She cocked her head to her side, and her scrutiny suddenly jumped up in intensity. Thomas met it for a moment before he looked away. He knew just how much he revealed to her; knew how quickly she could put the pieces together.  
_  
If I’m a rapist, then can I be raped?_ His own desperate words coming back to haunt him.

“It’s not like that,” he said, staring at the wall. “It’s not… Well, it was kind of like that, but it’s not like that anymore. It’s… We’re working on it. It’s not like that.”

Angelica hissed out a breath. Her hands inched forward, but Thomas pulled back his own and dropped them into his lap. He didn’t meet her eyes.

“Do you know what you sound like right now, Thomas?” she asked, her voice infinitely gentle. Thomas almost preferred it when she was straddling his lap and hissing at him.

“He’s taking care of it,” he said, words spilling out of him in a rush. “Because he takes care of me. He has always been taking care of me, and recently it’s just… He’s taking care of me in another way. It really isn’t like that.”

“Jesus Christ,” he heard her swear under her breath. He continued to stare at the wall even as he heard her heels thud on the carpet as she walked around the desk. She stood in front of him; he tried to turn away but her hand was gripping his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers.

“You sound like an abuse victim making excuses for his abuser,” she stated flatly. “That’s what you sound like, Thomas.”

Thomas started to shake his head, more denials coming to the tip of his tongue even though he suspected that none of them would work. But then a thought came to him, and his eyes widened behind his glasses.

“Has Sally ever made excuses for me?”

Angelica’s nail sunk into his skin, a sudden sharp whip of pain, before she let go entirely. “No,” she said, and he could hear the effort she was making to keep her voice even. “She never did.”

Somehow, that eased something inside him. Thomas slumped over, elbows on his knees as he let out a long, shuddering breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and groped for the folder, grabbing onto the edge of it before shoving it in Angelica’s direction.

“That’s what I need your help for,” he said quietly. “Can you read it over for me?”

He needed to learn how to phrase his relationship with James better. He needed to know what his relationship with James right now _was_. It was like a fog, enveloping him entirely, so much so that he couldn’t breathe without being reminded that it existed. But he couldn’t define it. He simply couldn’t, no matter how much he tried.

A sharp intake of breath. Thomas’s lips twitched upwards despite himself because he knew which part Angelica had reached in the document.

“Martha’s inheritance from her father was a hundred and eighty million, give or take a couple of hundred thousands,” he said, eyes still closed. “Sally’s the listed recipient because…” he shrugged.

“Why are you doing this?” Angelica asked. “Open your eyes and answer me, Thomas.”

The command shouldn’t have an effect on him – James didn’t command him much, and he hadn’t done so lately – but Thomas’s eyes snapped open anyway. He looked up to her and tried to smile.

“Because it’s what I should’ve done a long time ago,” he said softly. “Granted, it’s ten years late, but…”

“Do you think this will make up for what you’ve done?” Angelica asked, eyes narrowed on him.

Thomas couldn’t help it: he laughed, mirthless and cold. “No,” he said. “I know that it won’t make up for what I’ve done. I’m not paying her for her services, not anymore.” His lips stretched into a smile that hurt his cheeks. “I’m just giving her and her family what they deserve. What they should’ve had a long time ago.”

Angelica stared at him for another long moment before she turned away. She walked back behind her desk, dropping into the chair behind it before she continued staring at him.

“Was Martha’s inheritance a hundred eighty million in liquid assets?” she asked.

“No,” Thomas shook his head. “There was around thirty million in liquid assets, fifty in investments and bonds, twelve rooted in the Wayles plantation – he named it The Forest – though that might have changed since I had it valued ten years ago. The rest of it, nearly ninety million, was in the controlling shares of her father’s company.”

He tugged at the edges of his hair. Thinking about money made his head hurt, but it was better this than talking about his relationship with James.

“That’s why I need your help,” he said. “I’ve thought of two options. One, I give her hundred and eighty million in cash,” which would pauper him entirely and he might have to sell everything except for Monticello to do it, but he would deserve that, “two, I can give her fifty million in those investments and bonds, The Forest, and the other hundred and eighteen million in liquid assets.” 

“What about those controlling shares?” Angelica asked.

Thomas dragged his hand over his face. “Martha and I merged our families’ companies together eight years ago,” he said. “It was a pretty simple decision at the time because they dealt mostly with the same thing and…” He shrugged. “Anyway, my shares and her shares were all jumbled up together after that. And after she died…” He took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and forced himself to go on.

“Look, I have around a hundred sixty million worth of controlling shares in that merged company,” he said. He spread his hands out. “I don’t know how much is Martha’s and how much is mine. But if Sally wants any of it, she can take them. Though…”

“Though?” Angelica lifted her eyebrow.

Biting his lip, Thomas dragged his hand through his hair again. “The company isn’t doing very well financially,” he said, shrugging.

“What have you been doing with all of those liquid assets from Martha’s inheritance?” Angelica asked. “The thirty or so million.”

“Fixed deposit account for ten years,” Thomas said, giving her that wide, insincere smile again. “We didn’t really need that money, given my inheritance, so we shoved it all in the most convenient spot we can find. Plus the interest rate was four or five percent at the time, so the money wouldn’t end up depreciating due to inflation.”

Angelica picked up a pen and tapped it against her lip, brows creased into a frown.

“Why are you coming to me?” she asked. “Why aren’t you going straight to Sally about this?”

Thomas stared down at his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. When Angelica made an impatient sound, he sighed, and rubbed at the corners of his eyes with his knuckles.

“Look, I know what I’m doing isn’t enough,” he admitted to the darkness at the back of his eyelids. “I’ve tried to think of ways that will be enough but I can’t think of any. And I…” He laughed, hoarse and mirthless all over again. “I don’t know what would happen if I see her now that I know what I’ve done, and that’s… that’s terrifying, Angelica.”

“Hm,” Angelica said. She stayed silent for a long moment before she continued, voice low and contemplative: “You know, you can live the way you do just from the interest accrued from just that thirty million. Why do you still work?”

Lowering his hands, Thomas blinked at her. “You know,” he said, echoing her tone, “you have a trust fund and a future inheritance from your father. Why do you still work?”

“That’s,” Angelica started. Then she threw her head back and laughed, loud and rich. Exactly the kind of laugh he used to be able to get from her before this entire mess began. “That’s a good point,” she said, shoulders shaking.

Thomas shrugged. He leaned back against his chair. “Did you forget that you’re as rich as I am?” he said, dryly. “Maybe richer, because my inheritance was smaller than Martha’s.”

“I didn’t know that,” Angelica said, obviously surprised.

He shrugged again. “I hadn’t mentioned it.” It never mattered between him and Martha, honestly.

Angelica shook her head. “Speaking of that,” she said, “I’m actually glad you came to me instead of Sally about this. I don’t think she’ll be able to deal with this amount of money without some kind of warning beforehand. Even if it’s just numbers on paper right now.”

“Huh?” Thomas stared. “It’s not a lot.” It wasn’t as if he was some sort of billionaire or something. The last time he calculated, his total net worth came up to just barely shy of three hundred million.

Picking up the folder, Angelica brought it down over his head. Not enough to hurt; just enough to flatten his curls. She held it there. “It’s a lot of fucking money, Thomas,” she said flatly. “We’re rich, remember? One percent.”

Peering up at her from beneath the shadow of the folder, Thomas tried to shake his head. “Nah,” he said. “Probably two or three?”

She smacked him again, harder this time. “That’s still _a lot of money_ ,” she stressed. “Jesus Christ, Thomas. Most people don’t even have a _single_ million, and you have thirty of those just sitting in a bank to rot.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. His eyes fell shut. Yanking off his glasses again, he dropped forward and thunked his head hard against the wood of her desk. 

“Uh,” Angelica said. The folder slid off of his head.

“Fuck,” he told the table very eloquently. “Just… fuck.”

“Did I manage to give you another epiphany?” she asked, sounding just a little amused.

“Kind of,” he mumbled against the wood. “I mean, I know there’s a lot of shit I haven’t really realised? But…” he shrugged as much as he could in that position. “Just… Fuck.”

The folder tapped him a few times on top of his head. He had the vague sense that Angelica was patting him on the head without having to touch him. He ground his face into her desk a little bit more.

“Anyway,” she said. He heard the sound of her fountain pen cap clattering onto the table; felt the vibrations. “I’ll ask Sally what she and her family want with the hundred million. But for the eighty…” There was a pause.

“You give her every single bit of the money you have in the fixed deposit account,” she said, voice crisp. Her pen scratched softly on the paper. “Including the interest. Then you track down those fifty million in investments and bonds, and you give the entire sum to her, too.”

Thomas lifted his head, staring at her. Angelica gave him a thin smile.

“Didn’t you say that you should’ve done this ten years ago?” she asked, tone arch. “Take it that you’ve been ‘safekeeping’ the money without permission. Every cent of profit belongs to her.”

“What if the investments have made a loss?” Thomas asked.

“Well,” she said, pen tapping on her lip. “The original fifty million is the minimum amount you should give. If it’s lower, then… you have your own inheritance, right? You top it back up and give me the records of those losses.”

“That’s…” Thomas scratched the back of his neck. He considered that offer. “That’s fair. Just a warning, though: I’m pretty sure all fifty million is already gone.”

Angelica stared at him. “What,” she said flatly.

“John Wayles bought those things back in ’03 or ’04,” he said, shrugging. “When Martha got them in ’06, neither of us did anything to change them. And you know what happened in ’08.”

“Jesus,” Angelica blew her hair out of her face. “And you didn’t _check_?”

“No,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It just didn’t seem very important at the time, honestly.”

“You’re shit with money, aren’t you,” she stated.

“Yeah,” Thomas said, keeping his eyes closed. Her judgment pierced him anyway. He took a deep breath but it didn’t go away, so he boxed the pain up and put it all in the same place as the others. 

“Anyway,” he said, putting his glasses back on. He leaned forward on the table and tapped his fingers on the paper that Angelica still had her pen poised over. “That’s hundred million in whatever form Sally wants, and more than eighty million in liquid or partially liquid assets.” He paused.

“Do they need that much money?”

Cocking her head, Angelica smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Do _you_?” she asked, poison-sweet.

Did he? Thomas never worried about money; he had always lived with the certain knowledge that there would be enough money for whatever he wanted to do, no matter what it was. When he moved to New York, he chose a house he liked and had the whole thing renovated while splashing nearly a hundred thousand on rent in another place while waiting to move in. He bought cars he liked the look of and didn’t drive them often enough to justify the money he paid for them. Nearly all of his clothes were custom-made with imported fabrics, and he would throw them out once he got tired of them. 

Just one of his cars, or even a tenth of his wardrobe, would have paid for Sally’s education all the way up to medical school, including dorm fees and allowances for food.

All of that was unnecessary. All of that was waste. And practically none of it was what he’d earned himself.

He dropped his head back onto the table. “No,” he whispered.

“Thought so,” Angelica said. There was a quiet rustling of papers as she flipped through the rest of the contract before closing the whole folder. The edge of it nudged Thomas’s forehead when she pushed it over.

“Should I ask what caused your change of heart?”

Thomas pushed himself back up. He took the folder without opening it, holding it against his chest as he stared to the side again. Angelica’s bookshelf was sorted in alphabetical order, he reminds himself, with law textbooks mixed with novels and plays. Though he can’t see the words clearly right now without his glasses on, he has been here before.

“I don’t think I can explain,” he said. He met her eyes, and shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

Nodding to her, Thomas stood up to leave. He was halfway to the door when she said, “Hey.” He turned around.

Her eyes were dark and heavy on him even though she had turned her chair back to face her laptop. She lifted the lid but didn’t look at the screen as it lit up.

“Remember what I said about atrocities, Thomas,” she said. “You’re a bastard, but you’re not as big of one that you deserved…” She paused. “You don’t deserve being made a victim.”

There was a strong, bright thread of sincerity in her voice. But Thomas could only give her a smile he didn’t feel. He shook his head again.

“It’s not like that,” he said softly. “I don’t know what exactly it is, but it’s not like that.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Just remember what I said.”

“Yeah.”

“Sure you don’t want me to talk to Alexander for you?”

Thomas nodded again. “Yeah.” James would take care of it; he’d said so. And while Thomas trusted Angelica, he trusted James more. He couldn’t stop trusting James even if he tried, and he didn’t want to try.

“Then I won’t,” Angelica said. “You…” She hesitated. He cocked his head, and she chuckled.

“I don’t know if I like you better now than I did before,” she admitted.

Despite himself, his lips twitched. “Well, I’m stuck like this, I think,” Thomas said. “So you have plenty of time to decide.”

“That’s a way to put it,” Angelica said. She looked at him for another long moment, her sharp eyes seeming to see through him. He met her gaze and let her look her fill: all she would find was a mass of tangled knots. If she could help him find a way to even loosen any of them, then…

She turned back to her laptop. Thomas left her office. 

***

_April 18, Monday_

Even though James had agreed to meeting Burr during the phone call, he made the man wait until Monday. It was the least that Burr deserved. 

Granted, it might be Hamilton who’d delivered the threat and made Thomas tremble when he described the video, but James doubted that Burr’s hands were entirely clean of the matter either.

They met again at the Debauchee. When Thomas fretted about having a private location for the meeting, James told him about the club. He knew from the light in Thomas’s eyes that he realised that James had been playing with others – though that must have been obvious given James’s experience, it was a different thing to have knowledge confirmed – but James didn’t tell him about Ben. That was a conversation that could wait until a time when Thomas’s nerves were not so raw.

(Was he making a decision for Thomas? James knew he was, but he didn’t know if he was overstepping the butterfly-fragile boundaries between them. He told himself that he was making the right choice for the sake of Thomas’s peace of mind, but…) 

It was Wilmot behind the bar again, but thankfully he refrained from comment aside from a murmur that Burr had already arrived and was waiting in the third private room. James nodded, thanked him, and took his cognac upstairs. At the door, he took out his phone, pressed his first speed dial, and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.

“Judge Madison,” Burr greeted, as usual. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today.”

James unbuttoned his suit jacket but kept it on despite Burr being dressed down again today; he had no reason to indulge him. He sat down on the opposite couch and took a sip of his cognac. He watched as tension crawled up Burr’s fingers and twined around his arms with each passing moment of silence.

“Counsellor Burr,” he returned. He put down his glass and folded his hands on his knees. “You had ten sentences to convince me to listen to you. You now have nine left.”

Burr’s eyes widened, and James could practically feel his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t bother to hide the vicious triumph; allowed it to shape itself into a smile that curved up his lips and showed a hint of teeth. Let Burr be afraid; let him taste just a hint of what Thomas had felt when Hailton showed him that video; let him understand the rawness of James’s anger that Hamilton had dared to follow Thomas back home, much less tape what had happened right outside the gates. 

It had taken Thomas almost an hour to convince James to not immediately destroy Hamilton and Burr with his bare hands. It wouldn’t have been difficult: they had played with more than just each other in this club, and James had long ago learned ways to make people give damning testimonies even when they were trying their best not to. It would have been tit-for-tat, too, if he recorded those testimonies. 

But Thomas reminded him of the promise he’d made. So James didn’t try to protect him; didn’t try to solve this for him. He was just here to listen to Burr. Any decision had to be both his and Thomas’s, and not his own.

“There’s only one I need,” Burr said finally. He slipped his phone from his pocket, tapped on the screen, and placed it on the coffee table. He put a pair of earphones beside it. “Please listen to it.”

“What is it?” James asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The reason for Hamilton’s actions,” Burr said, giving a thin, mirthless smile. “The reason why I’m not allowing it to continue.”

So Burr wasn’t here to beg for Hamilton’s case, or to threaten James further. Interesting. Of course, Burr had _said_ that he was here to retract the blackmail, but James had found it rather hard to take him at his word.

“Alright,” he nodded, picking up both electronics on the table. What he saw on the phone’s screen had him raising an eyebrow. “Weeks zero three two nine one six,” he read out the file name. The date was near the beginning of the trial; a day or two after Laurens and Mulligan’s testimonies. He looked up to Burr, cocking his head.

Running a hand over his head, Burr sighed. “Please,” he said, voice soft. “Just listen.”

Burr hadn’t pleaded when he was asking for a meeting. A hint of vulnerability from a man who kept himself tightly controlled. James’s other eyebrow joined its mate in his hairline. He considered his options for a moment before he sent a mental apology to a man who wasn’t physically in the room. Then he pushed the earbuds in and pressed play. 

The first voice – light, nearly boyish – wasn’t familiar to him, but he could guess: Weeks. He leaned back against the couch when he heard Hamilton’s, frowning slightly as the conversation went on. This was supposed to be about Hamilton’s reason for blackmail, so Weeks being there didn’t make any sense—

 _Oh_. James’s breath caught in his throat.

He closed his eyes as the conversation continued, permitting himself to envision the setting. They were most likely in Weeks’s room in his sister’s apartment where he had been placed under house arrest. Given the proximity of the voices, they were sitting close to each other. And Hamilton might be keeping his voice rather even, but James could hear that tinge of fear from a mile away. It rang bright and clear in Hamilton’s every word.

James couldn’t blame him. Not when he could practically imagine Weeks murmuring _my favourite doll_ with his head tilted back, eyes closed with orgasmic ecstasy. Not when he could hear, near the end of the recording, Weeks’s voice getting louder – moving closer to Hamilton, practically touching him. He was likely smiling wide and sweet, with poison dripping from every word, made thicker with sincerity.

The recording ended abruptly. James pulled the earphones away, and put them together with Burr’s phone on the table carefully. He took his cognac, and threw the entire glass back in one large gulp. He knew that he should be drinking more carefully, but he needed the burn.  
__  
My favourite doll… I knew that I was doing what was right for Elric.  
  
Here, in full flesh, was the man James could have turned into if he hadn’t tried to pull back his control; if he’d never had control for the storm of his desire to rip through. No, Weeks was not a man at all – he was a monster. A monster seated in the defendant’s bench just a couple of feet away from Thomas during every court session, a monster who would have touched him and tried to take him—

 _Stop._ He needed to stop. He couldn’t head down that path. Not again. 

All Weeks had done while court was in session was to cry and shiver and look afraid. Putting on a front, James knew now. He would never get the chance to touch Thomas without condemning himself. And given what James just heard him say to Hamilton, Weeks would never even _want_ to. There was no logic in his line of thought; only selfishness and possessiveness dressed up as protection. Carving out a circle around Thomas that only he was allowed to step into even though it meant that Thomas would be entirely alone if not for him. Even though Thomas deserved more.

“Selfishness,” he murmured. “This is the extreme of the word, I think.”

His hand trembled as he put the glass back on the table, twitched even harder when he wiped the back of it over his mouth. His skin felt like ants had crawled into it and were leaving footprints on his bones.

“The better word would be psychopathy, I think,” Burr said. His eyes were averted, staring deep into the wall. His fingers trembled as he wound the earphones around his hand and slipped them back into his pocket. 

Another crack in the mask. Another vulnerability. James didn’t need to ask why Burr hadn’t put the recording on speaker even though the room was soundproofed.

Or perhaps that was another assumption rooted in selfishness. James wouldn’t want to listen to that monster’s filth either. He exhaled hard through gritted teeth, and forced himself to focus back on the purpose of this meeting.

“That,” he said, waving towards the phone, “makes Hamilton’s actions even more despicable.”

“It does,” Burr admitted, closing his eyes. 

“So what did you call me here for?” James cocked his head to the side. “To waste our time?”

“No,” Burr said. Dark eyes opened and met James’s squarely. “I’m here to request for Hamilton to be the one who submits the recording to Franklin as evidence.” 

Thomas’s lowered eyes. Thomas’s hunched shoulders. Hamilton’s fault. “And why,” James said, deliberately slow, “would I agree to that?”

“Two reasons,” Burr said, leaning forward. It was an earnest posture, an earnest face; both looked better on Hamilton than Burr. “Firstly, we both know the consequences if a man like Weeks becomes our representative in the popular imagination.”

Well, Burr had a point there: the media liked to tar entire groups of people in a single brush, and the public usually bought those colours. Induction taken to its fullest extreme. There was bile on James’s tongue and he knew it was because he and Weeks were similar enough to be classified together, but the differences were crucial.

It wasn’t a good enough reason.

“The second?” 

Burr ducked his head. He chewed on his lip for a moment before he looked up, giving James a small, wry smile. “Your clemency.”

James blinked. Then he laughed, sharp and loud and long, because the very idea was ridiculous. Not only because of the idea of being merciful to Hamilton for doing something so despicable, but because it was _Burr_ who was doing the asking.

“So the man infamous for his compartmentalisation ends up having all of his walls shattered after all,” James drawled, spreading his hands out. “That’s a hell of a surprise.”

Despite how much Burr was trying to hide it, James noticed his flinch. He waited, cocking his head to the side.

“And the man known for his respect for boundaries crosses those that should not be crossed,” Burr murmured. He lifted his eyes and met James’s. “Isn’t that a surprise as well?”

Of course Burr would have used what he had seen during that one court session James attended against him. “That’s some assumption you’re making,” James said, keeping his tone mild.

“Circumstantial evidence,” Burr drawled in reply. “But damning, nonetheless.”

“You’re not giving me reason to give you mercy,” James pointed out.

“I’m not asking for myself,” Burr said, a faint smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I’m asking for Hamilton.”

“Aren’t you being presumptuous to speak for him?”

“Only as much as he allowed me to tell,” Burr said. “Aren’t you presumptuous, too, being here when the case is not yours?”

The back-and-forth was nearly familiar enough to make James smile. Despite the storm he had just weathered, one that he had refused to acknowledge for so long, whatever he had with Burr was still the same, somehow. 

“That’s only if you assume that I am here to make decisions on his behalf,” he said. “But I’m not. I’m only here to listen.” He leaned further back, sinking into the couch cushions as he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. He didn’t give into the urge to check his jacket pocket. “So talk.”

Burr was silent for long moments, staring down at his hands. James didn’t doubt that he already had his argument prepared, and so he didn’t prompt him, didn’t give him any hint that he was impatient for an explanation.

“It has to be Hamilton who submits the evidence,” Burr said finally. “For one thing, he was the one who recorded the conversation. But, more importantly, it was _Hamilton_ who gave our opening argument about liberty. And the case has been circling about the ideas of intent and consent.” James nodded when those dark eyes lifted to look at him. He didn’t need more than one court session to understand the heart of the opposing arguments. Burr took a breath, and continued.

“If it is the prosecution who submits the evidence, then the entire argument for a person to have the liberty to choose what they want done to their body will fall. Weeks will become the norm instead of the exception, and there is the danger of laws being created to forbid BDSM altogether because of one instance of abuse. If Hamilton submits the evidence, then we can make the argument that Weeks is an anomaly and the liberty argument should still stand.”

Leaning forward, James picked up his empty glass. He toyed with the short stem and spun it around and around while keeping his eyes on Burr. He didn’t need to fidget while thinking, but it was a good prop to make Burr even more nervous.

“That’s not an argument for mercy,” he said finally. “That’s an argument for rationality.”

Nodding, Burr cocked his head. “Isn’t that one that will work better with you?”

“You’re not arguing with _me_ ,” James returned, lips curling into a smirk. “No matter how little you think of me, I will not be making a decision on the prosecution’s behalf.”

“Why are you here then?” Burr asked, eyes narrowing. “Why isn’t Jefferson here? Why did you come if you refuse to have a stake in this?”

Slowly, James put the glass back down. He clasped his hands together tightly enough that the skin over the knuckles lightened. He smiled. “He isn’t here because I want to be,” he said, letting a thread of danger wind around his soft voice. “And I’m here because Hamilton didn’t videotape a solo event.”

As Burr’s eyes widened, James widened his smile. “Your arguments must suit both of us, Counsellor Burr. Keep that in mind, especially since Hamilton refused to be here.”

“He didn’t refuse,” Burr told him. “I refused to let him come.”

“Oh?” James raised an eyebrow.

“You have redrawn your boundaries, Judge Madison,” Burr said, voice barely above a whisper, “but I have learned to live with the destruction of my walls. I’m here because I will save Hamilton, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to accomplish that.”

“Save him,” James repeated. Now that was an unexpected turn of events. To have fallen for someone was a very different creature than wanting so desperately to rescue them. 

“For his sake and my own.” Burr fetched him a cold, mirthless smile as he laid out all of his cards on the table. “To put it in Hamilton’s terms, Judge Madison, Weeks is a monster at the crossroads. Hamilton is halfway to allowing him to devour his soul, and I will not let that continue.”

“What about your own?” James asked, cocking his head. “Your soul, in Hamilton’s terms.”

“Well,” Burr said, smile widening. “I did say that I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

 _Selfishness_ , Burr had told him months ago. He had always seen the relationship between a Dom and his sub as being less of trust than a meeting of needs, a transactional process. And yet here he was, staring into James’s eyes as he placed himself between him and Hamilton, acting like a physical shield to absorb all possible blows. 

It was a path fraught with dangers that James knew very well. He could still taste the darkness of it on the tip of his tongue.

“Why?” He wasn’t asking for Burr’s reasons for doing this for Hamilton; the answer was clear enough in the look in his eyes. James recognised it well: he saw the same look in his own plenty of times in the mirror whenever he even thought of Thomas.

Burr understood without needing clarification. “Hamilton acted out of desperation,” he told James. “He thought he had no other choice. I can carve out another path for him.”

Not just for Burr’s own career, then. Burr needed to save Hamilton because it would ease something within him. Because that was what was necessary to him.

They really were so very different. James couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head.

“How many copies do you have of the video and the recording?”

“Only one,” Burr said. He leaned forward to tap the phone on the table. “They are both here with me. Hamilton doesn’t have either, not anymore.”

“I see,” James nodded. He looked at Burr for another moment before he jerked his head to the door. “Get out.”

“What?”

James drew out his own phone from his jacket pocket and balanced it on his palm. The little indicator light was flashing, showing that he had an ongoing call. “Get out,” he repeated, and matched the command with a thin smile. “Thirty minutes.”

To Burr’s credit, he didn’t make a fuss. He only nodded and stood, heading out of the door. He left his phone back on the table. James picked it up, and discovered that it wasn’t locked.

He put his own phone to his ear. “Did you miss anything?”

“Only the recording,” Thomas said, yawning in the middle of the third word. “Do the two of you _always_ talk in circles like that?”

Chuckling, James shifted on the couch until he was sprawled with his back against an arm and his shoes scuffing the cushions, mirroring Thomas’s position in James’s living room. “Most of the time,” he said. “It’s half a game and half a habit.”

“I think I sprained something rolling my eyes a few times,” Thomas told him, sounding huffy. “I’m glad I didn’t go.”

Thomas being in the Debauchee was an awful idea. Especially if he ended up meeting Wilmot. James shelved the thought. “The recording was of Weeks making his confession,” he said instead, belatedly answering the unasked question. “He didn’t realise that he was making a confession, but that just made everything more damning.”

“You’re being remarkably vague,” Thomas said.

“Weeks is a monster,” James said, staring up to the ceiling. “It’s… I’d rather not subject you to the recording unless it’s absolutely necessary. I can’t actually summarise it beyond saying that he’s a psychopath and a monster, and I’m rather angry that the northern states have gotten rid of the death penalty because he needs to be put down like a rabid dog.”

Silence on the other end. James closed his eyes, taking a few breaths to calm himself. His skin was threatening to crawl again.

“Okay,” Thomas said softly. “Okay. I’ll take your word for that.”

“Can I….” James swallowed. “On the day that the recording is going to be played as evidence… Can I come with you to court?”

“Are you trying to protect me again?” Thomas asked, the small tinge of amusement in his voice nearly drowned out by his exasperation. “I told you that you don’t have to.”

“This isn’t about your mistakes, or what you did,” James said. He scrubbed his knuckles hard over his eyes. “This is for my own peace of mind. Thomas, he’s…Please. Just let me sit with the audience. I won’t come near you unless you want me to.” And even if he did, he had to be very careful. There was no point going to all this trouble if they ended up outing themselves with their own actions.

“If I don’t let Hamilton give the recording to Franklin, then I’ll have to listen to it myself before I hand it in, right?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah.” 

“And you really don’t want me listening in to it,” Thomas continued. “You’re so terrified by what might happen to me if I listen to it that you want to be there when I can’t refuse. But you’re not telling me what is actually _in_ the recording.”

James squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he said again.

“Fuck’s sake,” Thomas exhaled hard through his teeth. “I’m almost tempted to tell Burr to fuck off with his arguments and let me submit it just so I can know what it is tonight and get rid of all this mystery.”

“Almost?” James asked.

Thomas made an inarticulate sound of frustration, like a rudely-awakened kitten. “You know, Hamilton’s a complete bastard,” he said. “Desperation or whatever, he can go rot for all I care. But the way Burr sounded just now…” He laughed shakily. “He reminds me of you.” 

A pause. James didn’t speak; simply waited him out. “See, James, it’s… He’s asking for mercy. Not for himself, but for Hamilton. He’s willing to do anything and give everything for Hamilton’s sake. Sound familiar?”

“You told me not to do that anymore,” James said softly. 

“Because it’s bad for you,” Thomas said wryly. “And it’s bad for me too. But, hell, if Hamilton fucks up _this_ badly when he’s on his own, maybe he actually does need Burr to be his knight in shining armour.” He paused, then made a sound like a verbal shrug. “Or maybe he doesn’t and they will end up crashing and burning. Whatever. I really don’t care. That’s not my point.”

Helplessly, James laughed. He could imagine Thomas lying on the couch with the phone in his ear, legs kicking at the arm as he changed topics. “What _is_ your point?” he asked.

“He reminds me of the good parts of you,” Thomas said grumpily. “And that’s making me biased. Oh, and his logical arguments are actually pretty good.”

Which meant that it was Burr’s argument from logic that made sense, but whatever similarities Thomas heard between him and James were what was convincing him and he didn’t know what to make of that. James stared at the ceiling, fingers twitching on top of his chest because he knew that he couldn’t touch Thomas right now, much less kiss him like he wanted to.

Actually, even if they were side by side, James still couldn’t kiss him anyway. Thomas hadn’t said that he could yet. James felt like dying whenever Thomas practically flung himself away whenever he looked at him in a certain way, but it was better that than to cross the boundaries and risk destroying Thomas all over again.

“Should I tell Burr that Hamilton could go ahead and submit the recording to Franklin?” he asked.

“Look, the easiest way out of this is to just not submit the recording at all,” Thomas said. “Just take it from Burr and then delete it – first bring it home and let me listen, because I’m dying of curiosity here, but that’s beside the point – because Weeks is getting a guilty verdict anyway since I’m pretty much destroying their case. So it might just be a fuss over nothing, honestly. But…”

“But?” James prompted, because he knew he needed to, this time.

“As much as I hate to admit it, Burr has a point,” Thomas sighed. “This case is the first of its kind. It sets a precedent. Some kind of statement has to be made. And Hamilton with his whole liberty argument has to be the one to make it.”

“Hamilton still did something wrong,” James reminded.

“I’m getting to that,” Thomas said. There was the sound of shifting, and another quiet yawn. “If we’re going to let him give the recording to Franklin, then he has to be the one to tell Franklin why I offered the plea bargain in the first place.”

“Is that your way of making him clean up his own messes?” James asked, slightly amused.

“Not really,” Thomas said, words dragging out through another yawn. “More that I really don’t want to have to answer to Franklin myself, and everything is Hamilton’s fault anyway, so he has to pay it back in _some_ way. No matter how hard Burr is trying to protect him.”

“Okay,” James said. “That sounds reasonable.”

“You can tell me if you’d rather another option, you know,” Thomas told him, voice soft. “What is it you told Burr? The video Hamilton took wasn’t of a solo act.”

James hesitated. Where was the line between a discussion between equals and manipulating Thomas to do what he wanted? Where was the line between his own selfishness and what was right to do?”

“Honestly,” he said, staring up to the ceiling. “I still want to hurt them badly for what they did to you.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, sounding surprised. “Are you still angry?”

“More than you can imagine,” James admitted, closing his eyes. “Burr was… he was sitting right there, darlin’, and he said that he was willing to do anything. _Anything_.”

“Stop,” Thomas snapped, whip-sharp. “James. Stop, okay? Don’t.”

“I didn’t do anything,” James said, dragging his hand over his face. “I swear.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Thomas said, far more gentle this time. “I would’ve heard if you did anything. But you don’t need to hurt people for my sake, okay? Not again.”

Grinding his knuckles against the bridge of his nose, James sighed. “I’m not learning very well, am I?”

“We have time,” Thomas said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Those were the same lines he had been giving James for the past few days, but James still felt the guilt twisting hard in his chest anyway. He always picked up things so quickly, so why was this so difficult? Why was it that he still ended up doing this no matter how many times he told himself that he shouldn’t, that he wouldn’t?

“Hey,” Thomas murmured, voice growing deeper. “Hey. Stop that, too. Stop beating yourself up, okay? It’s okay.”

No, it wasn’t. If it really was okay, then James didn’t have to struggle to not reach out whenever he looked at Thomas. He wouldn’t be lying in his bed every night half-wishing that Thomas hadn’t figured things out because then the sheets wouldn’t be so cold. He wouldn’t stop his hand from stroking himself off whenever he remembered how it felt like to have Thomas’s body against him, around him. He wouldn’t have to lock his own bedroom door so he would have more time to stop himself from heading upstairs to the guestroom.

He wouldn’t still want Thomas so much that the sound of his voice through the phone was thinning the very air he breathed.

“Fuck,” he said eloquently.

Thomas laughed, soft and shaky. “It’s okay,” he repeated, even gentler this time. “Look, I fucked up really badly too, okay? And I’m trying to believe that things will eventually be okay from my end too. Can you… can you believe with me?”

That wasn’t the same. Thomas’s mistakes didn’t end up with the person he loved most being terrified of him. And James could tell that Thomas _was_ afraid whenever James threatened to cross the line he had drawn.

“I’m trying,” he admitted, exhaling raggedly into the mouthpiece. He pushed himself back up nonetheless, feet thumping against the carpeted floor. "But, for now, I'm going to call Burr in to tell him what we've decided."

"Okay." Thomas sounded muffled, like he was rubbing his cheek against the couch cushions. "Leave the line on?"

"Of course," James said. "But you should go to sleep, darlin'."

"Nah," Thomas yawned. "I'll wait up for you. G'on."

James opened his mouth to argue, and then decided against it. He also refused to acknowledge the warmth blossoming in his chest about being able to go home to Thomas. That would be skirting far too close to the line.

"See you," he murmured. After Thomas gave a quiet half-purr of assent, he turned the volume down, slipped the phone back into his jacket, and headed for the door.

Burr was standing right outside, leaning against the opposite wall with his eyes half-closed and arms crossed. He tipped his head up, and James jerked his head towards the room. "We're done," he said, and didn't think about the circles Burr's thoughts must have been going through during the long wait.

When Burr had seated himself back on the couch, James took out his phone. The indicator light was still flashing, but he ignored it. "Transfer the video Hamilton took of us here, and delete your copy," he said. "I'll tell you what we've decided after."

Reaching for his own phone, still lying on the table, Burr obeyed. "You could've done that by yourself before I came in," he murmured.

“It won’t mean as much as you doing it,” he said. “Subtlety and hidden messages aren’t really the key here, Counsellor.”

“Now that’s different,” Burr said. But he didn’t comment further, simply did as James had said. They didn’t speak as the file transferred, and James waited until Burr deleted the file right in front of him before he put his own phone on the table – there was no point hiding Thomas’s presence in the conversation now – before leaning back.

“We’ll let Hamilton be the one who submits the recording with one condition,” James said, giving Burr a grim smile. “He tells Franklin about the blackmail he attempted.”

Running a hand over his head, Burr’s eyes dropped back down to the carpet. He didn’t speak.

“Receiving rewards for illegal actions isn’t really how the system works,” James continued, mockery thick in his voice. “And make no mistake. What we’re allowing _is_ an undeserved reward.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Burr looked up to him. “Don’t you still owe me a favour?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. He really was very good at regaining his composure.

“That’s too small a favour to pay for this,” James said, smile thin. “You can still collect it on a different day, if you like.”

“I’d rather not test my luck,” Burr said, because he wasn’t a stupid man. He knew that, condition or not, Thomas was doing him a huge favour by agreeing to this. 

Pushing his hands against his knees, Burr stood. He dropped his phone back into his pants pocket, and held out his hand. “Judge Madison,” he murmured.

James raised an eyebrow. He took the hand, nonetheless. Then, just when Burr’s hand closed around his palm, he pulled hard, practically sending the slighter man sprawling on top of the coffee table. The cognac glass rolled off onto the carpet.

He met Burr’s eyes, and he smiled as he stood as well. “You asked for my clemency, Counsellor Burr,” he said softly, “but it was Thomas’s that you received. If it were up to me…” He cocked his head, and didn’t finish the sentence.

Burr picked himself off the table, brushing at his thighs even though there was no dirt anywhere in the room. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you use any form of physical violence,” he said mildly.

“It is rather crude,” James agreed. He took his phone off the table and picked his glass off of the floor. “Easy to recover from.”

“I see,” Burr said. Now, James had no doubt he truly did.

“Counsellor,” he nodded, and swept out of the door.

It was only when he was in his car that he placed his phone against his ear again. Thomas was still laughing, breathless little chuckles, and James smiled even as he turned the key in the ignition.

“I’m glad to amuse,” he said, switching over to the headset as he pulled the car out of the lot.

“You need to tell me what his face looked like when you come home,” Thomas said gleefully. “I expect it to be great.”

“Maybe,” James hedged just to hear Thomas giggle again. “But again, it _was_ Burr.’”

Thomas demanded to know what he meant by that. James’s lips twitched upwards, and he laughed into the headset and didn’t answer. This time, it wasn’t because he was keeping a secret: though he and Burr mostly brushed each other’s orbits instead of fully touching them, over ten years of history was very difficult to summarise over a phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene killed me to write. I don’t actually know what I’m doing. I’m so terrible at finance, guys, and all those numbers are more unreal to me than anything in this fic. So if anything doesn’t make sense, that’s why. I’m sorry in advance.
> 
> Things between Madison and Jefferson are still a complete mess, but they are also very cute. News at 11.


	24. the room where it happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions can only be made by those who are brought into the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Benjamin Franklin is a legitimate warning

_April 19, Tuesday_

Franklin’s office was, like that of every other District Court Judge, located in the courthouse itself. It was a pretty big office. Or, at least, Alexander guessed that it was large, given that there were double doors to it. Double doors with Franklin’s full name and title engraved on a wooden plaque hanging on the left, and a hand-drawn illustration of… something pasted right below it.

Alexander cocked his head to the side and squinted at the picture. There were a bunch of stick figures interlocked in pairs with limbs in strange positions. Some of them looked like they had three legs instead of two. There was also a sun scrawled in yellow crayon in the top right hand corner. The sun had a very strange expression drawn in marker. If Alexander didn’t know better, he would think it was a perverse smirk. The sun also had tendrils of something around it.

“That’s a present from one of my students,” a voice said behind him. “My own illustrated version of the Kama Sutra, and also of me.”

Practically flinging himself away from the door, Alexander squeaked. He whirled around, wide-eyed, and then pressed himself hard against the wall because Franklin was _two inches_ away from him. 

“Judge Franklin!” His eyes darted towards the nameplate. “Dr Franklin. Uhm.”

“Franklin-uhm is not my name,” Franklin said, dryly. “Also, that’s the most dramatic reaction I’ve gotten from someone for months. Not even the interns are so amusing anymore.”

“Uhm,” Alexander said, blinking.

“My name is not uhm, either,” Franklin said, sounding overly patient. He sighed heavily, and shrugged. “Never mind. I’m sure you know my name. What is it that you’re here for, Counsellor Hamilton?”

Shaking his head hard, Alexander crab-walked sideways until Franklin wasn’t so incredibly close to him anymore. It was completely undignified and probably ruined the good impression he was trying to make by wearing one of his best suits and leaving his backpack at the office, but it was absolutely paramount for him to get some distance between him and Franklin.

Slowly, he peeled himself away from the wall and took out a USB drive from his pocket. Franklin’s blue eyes snapped towards it immediately, and he raised an eyebrow.

“I’m here to submit a piece of new evidence for the defence,” Alexander said. He inhaled sharply through his teeth, and forced himself to continue, “And to retract District Attorney Jefferson’s plea bargain on his behalf.”

Damn Jefferson. Though Alexander could understand why, and knew that he probably deserved it, he could still damn Jefferson to the depths of a thousand levels of hell for making him do this anyway.

“The defence counsel is actually retracting a plea bargain on behalf of the prosecution,” Franklin said, every word deliberate and slow. “Now that’s something I never thought I’d hear.”

“It’s…” Alexander hesitated. He clenched his hand around the USB and thrust it forward. “I’d like to submit the evidence first, Judge Franklin. It will… I believe it will explain everything.”

“That’s for me to decide,” Franklin said. He pushed open the right door and stepped inside. Alexander took another glance at the drawing – stick figure Kama Sutra, seriously? – before he followed him in.

Franklin took the USB drive from his hand and went straight to his computer, which was a desktop. Alexander spent the few moments he waited asking himself why anyone would still use a desktop. He tried his best to not shift from foot to foot or do anything that would make him seem him a middle-schooler in the principal’s office. He was a fully-functioning adult… Well, he was an adult.

“Sit down,” Franklin said. When Alexander obeyed, he turned the monitor over, where he had the file open. His cursor was hovering over play.

“Uhm,” Alexander said again. “Start at the seven minute mark, sir. The beginning isn’t relevant. And, uh…” He dug into his pockets and produced the same pair of earphones he’d offered to Burr. “Please use these.”

“Why?” Franklin said. He shifted the bar to the seven minute mark. “My speakers are perfectly serviceable.”

“I’d rather not listen to it,” Alexander said softly. “Please, sir.”

Turning around in his swivel chair, Franklin turned his entire attention on him. Here, in this much smaller office, with neither Burr, Jefferson, nor any witness to divert his attention, Franklin’s eyes were incredibly intense. They were a soft cornflower blue, the colour further muted behind those dorky round glasses, but Alexander felt the man practically see through him anyway.

“You don’t want to listen to it,” Franklin said.

“Yes,” Alexander said. Then he corrected himself, “I mean, no. I mean, I don’t want to listen to it, sir.”

“What _is_ it?”

“It’s recording of a conversation between myself and my… and Mr Weeks,” Alexander said. He stifled a wince as much as he could when Franklin’s eyebrows shot up at his little slip. “It’s… Please, sir. Just listen to it. I honestly can’t explain it better.”

“Did you have permission for the recording?” Franklin asked.

Alexander nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s always part of the contract I sign with my clients. The General, I mean, Mr Washington made sure that it’s there because I like recording conversations so that I can go over them at a later date just in case I missed anything.”

“So this is perfectly legal,” Franklin said. He turned away at that moment, which was probably a good thing because Alexander had to clasp his hands together under the table so he didn’t start apologising or say that _this_ was the legal part. He tried to smile instead.

As Franklin plugged in the earphones and started to play the recording, Alexander watched him. Well, he did for the first few minutes, and then sitting down became too difficult. At the eighteen minute mark, he stood up. Franklin didn’t look at him, face still blank except for his furrowed brows, and so Alexander took that as tacit permission to explore.

Two walls of the office were lined from end to end with filled bookshelves. There were more books lying on the two couches set right against them. Alexander wandered over, and picked up one. It was a well-thumbed paperback, but the insides were clean of any writing on the margins or highlighting. The title said _Carmilla._ Alexander put it back down carefully, glancing over to Franklin, who was frowning even deeper with his lips thin.

There were books by Rousseau, all lined up together: _The Origin of Languages, Pygmalion, The Creed of a Savoyard Priest,_ _Reveries of the Solitary Walker_ , and _Confessions_ , Rousseau’s autobiography. The last was halfway out of the shelf, practically an invitation, so Alexander brought it out and flipped through it. It was written in the original French. He closed the book again because he might be able to read it, but it took effort that he didn’t think he could spare right now.

Alexander was reaching for the _Treatise on the Use of Flogging in Medicine and Venery_ by Meibom when Franklin spoke, “Well. That was certainly something.”

Spinning around, Alexander barely avoided tripping over his own feet. He slammed his toes hard against the edge of the couch, flailed for a moment to catch his balance, before he looked at Franklin.

The judge wasn’t looking at him. He was leaning back against his chair, fingers steepled together above his chest, and staring blankly at his monitor’s screen. The earphones lied in a neatly-folded pile beside his elbow. Slowly, as Alexander approached, he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“If this is submitted as evidence, it will completely ruin your case,” Franklin said. His eyes slid over to meet Alexander’s. “You do realise that, Counsellor Hamilton?”

“Yes,” Alexander said. “I know.”

“Yet you still want to submit it?”

“Winning isn’t…” Alexander’s throat closed up. He dragged a tremulous hand over his hair before letting it drop back to his lap. He took a deep breath. “Winning isn’t as important as justice in this case, sir. And justice is very, very clear.”

“That’s not something I expected you to say,” Franklin murmured.

“I’m sorry?” Alexander blinked.

“You have quite a reputation, Counsellor,” Franklin said. He spun his chair around and looked at Alexander above his glasses. “There are many who say that you will do anything in order to win.”

Even though he had lived in the city for over half of his life, Alexander still found himself surprised by the vastness of New York’s grapevine. Or, more likely, he was just never part of it and so he never could get used to it. 

None of that mattered right now anyway. He bit the inside of his cheek. “Only when I truly believe in a client’s innocence,” he said. “I cannot for…” he nodded in the direction of the monitor.

“His name is Weeks,” Franklin said. “Don’t get all afraid of saying his name when you were brave enough to escape him at his worst.”

Was that a compliment? Alexander blinked, and then shook his head mentally. “I cannot believe in Weeks’s innocence,” he said. “Not anymore. He’s a monster.”

For the first time since Alexander saw him outside the office, Franklin smiled. It was a thin-lipped, unpleasant thing. “No, he’s no monster,” he said. “Only a man. Utterly blind and with a dead heart, and therefore capable of terrible deeds. Calling him a monster will be praising him too highly.”

“Okay,” Alexander said. “Will you…”

“Accept it as evidence?” Franklin finished for him. “Yes. You’ll have to do up a proper write-up for it, of course, but on Thursday, it will be played in court for the jury.”

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut. He knew this would happen. He knew that Burr would have to listen to the entire thing all over again while under the eyes of the entire courtroom. But that didn’t mean that it didn’t sting.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Don’t thank me when you don’t mean it,” Franklin said. “I cannot change court procedures. This piece of evidence is too important for it to be kept secret.”

“I know,” Alexander said. He opened his eyes and dragged a hand through his hair. “I understand, sir.”

Franklin watched him for a long moment before he nodded. Then he leaned back further against his chair, making the plastic squeak. “Now that the unpleasant business is over,” he said. “What is it that you were talking about with the plea bargain Jefferson offered?”

“That’s…” Alexander ducked his head, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s more unpleasant business, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?” Franklin raised an eyebrow.

Staring down at his hands, Alexander took a deep breath. He didn’t really need it – the words came easily to his tongue, far easier than the threats to Jefferson had. “I blackmailed Jefferson, sir. That’s the reason why he offered the plea bargain.”

“Blackmailed,” Franklin repeated. His voice was strangely blank, but Alexander didn’t dare to look up to see his face.

“Yes, sir,” he said. He tugged at the ends of his hair. “After my conversation with Weeks, I knew the case would be lost. I didn’t always believe that justice should supersede winning, sir.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “And so I… I found out a piece of information on Jefferson- on District Attorney Jefferson, and I used it to blackmail him.”

“Come now,” Franklin said, a trace of amusement in his voice. “You’re in full confessional mode, so stop with those vagaries.”

Alright, so Franklin wanted every dirty detail. Alexander nodded, and took another steadying breath. “I followed District Attorney Jefferson after court on the night of April 11 to the gates of Judge James Madison’s estate. And then I… I videotaped a scene between the two of them.”

Franklin was laughing. Alexander’s head shot up, and he stared. Franklin’s head was thrown backwards, and he was spinning around and around on his chair as he _cackled_ , long and loud.

“Oh, little James,” he shook his head. “At your _gates_! You didn’t even wait until you got into the house!” He took a deep breath, and let out another series of cackles.

Something Burr had said last Friday came back to Alexander then: _Do you realise that Madison works in this building alongside Franklin?_ _Who do you think Franklin would side with, huh? His fellow esteemed judge…_

Of course Alexander knew that Madison and Franklin were colleagues, but ‘Little James’ was a completely different thing. Though he honestly didn’t understand how Franklin could think of Madison as being _little_ given that the man was both taller and broader than him. It might be the age – if Alexander remembered correctly, Madison was his age, or a year or two older at most – but that didn’t…

His thoughts were interrupted when Franklin stopped laughing just as abruptly as he had started. The judge’s eyes were on Alexander again, narrowed and sharp, and Alexander stifled a shiver because the sudden switch was just unnatural.

“That’s quite a heavy charge that you’ve laid upon yourself, Counsellor,” Franklin said.

Alexander tried to smile. He was pretty sure it came out to be something rather grotesque. “That’s why the plea bargain exists,” he said. “And why I’m the one retracting it.”

Franklin’s eyes rested on him for a long, silent moment while Alexander tried to not fidget. Then the older man stood up, and headed over to the corner of his desk. He took out a package of something colourful from a tall glass jar, tore it open, and tossed the contents into his mouth. He chewed. Alexander squinted at the packaging that Franklin flicked onto the ground and realised that they were gummy bears.

What?

“All of you young people are so incredibly emotional,” Franklin said, amused. He also sounded muffled because he was still chewing. Alexander tried to not stare at his mouth. “I figured that it was something of this sort and so I didn’t actually put the plea bargain on record.”

“Uh,” Alexander blinked.

“Honestly, it wasn’t difficult to figure out,” Franklin drawled. “Burr drags you and Jefferson off to some secluded little corner. And then you and Jefferson start playing some ridiculous game of charades. Not to mention that Jefferson hates the very idea of plea bargains—”

“Wait,” Alexander interrupted. “Wait, wait, wait, how do you know _that_?” When Franklin raised an eyebrow, he added belatedly, “Sir.”

“Jefferson is easier to read than that irritating ‘See Spot Run’ book,” Franklin said.

That what book? Never mind, Alexander brushed the thought away. “I mean, how did you know what happened at…” _At the holding cell_ , he almost continued, but bit his tongue just in case Franklin didn’t know that part.

Franklin burst out laughing again. He dropped back into his chair, shaking his head. He turned back to his screen and clicked the cursor a few times. As Alexander watched, he pulled up a video.

“ _Nice place you’ve picked_ ,” Jefferson’s voice practically blared through the speakers, grating even with bad audio recording equipment. “ _Very atmospheric. Very appropriate._ ”

Alexander knew he was gaping. He couldn’t seem to get his jaw to work again. Franklin was laughing at him.

“Sweet summer child,” Franklin said, spinning around to laugh at Alexander again. “With the exception of the offices, every single room in this courthouse is bugged 24/7. Do you really think that you can have clandestine little meetings _here_? In the middle of the New York legal system?”

The room was bugged. Everything that happened inside there had been recorded. Alexander’s breath stopped in his throat. It wasn’t the plea bargain he was worried about. It was…

Burr on the ground, gasping. Burr’s composure falling to pieces. Burr’s raw vulnerability on display. _There have been a couple of bastards in my life_ … Words meant only for Alexander’s ears, and now…

He stood up abruptly enough to nearly knock his chair over, hands gripping the edge of Franklin’s desk. He was practically trembling.

“How many…” he swallowed. “How many people have seen this, sir?”

“Only me,” Franklin said, smiling thinly. “None of you noticed, because you were so wrapped up in your affairs, but I was watching all three of you as you left the courtroom.” His smile widened. “Seniority gives one some benefits when it comes to convincing people to hand over videotapes.” 

Franklin had arrived back at the courtroom almost at the same time they did. 

Turning away from Alexander, he dragged the bar nearly to the end of the video. It was, Alexander noted dully, nearly two hours long. When Franklin pressed play, he watched the grainy grey version of himself and Burr, both seated on the ground, foreheads touching each other’s.

It made him feel sick. That was a moment between him and Burr that should never have been watched by any other eyes. No one should have…

Oh, God. He dropped back into his chair. Was this… Was this how Jefferson had felt when he had played that video he’d taken?

His eyes were still fixed on the blank space above Franklin’s head when the judge spoke again, “Be careful when taking advantage of others’ carelessness, Counsellor, in case it happens to you as well.”

Raising his hands, Alexander buried his face into them. He dug the heels of his palms hard against his eyes until he could see stars. Then he dropped them and looked at Franklin again.

“Is there anything I can do, sir, to have that video?” he asked. He didn’t try to stipulate the only copy; he hoped it was implied. “If there’s anything I can do, sir, please tell me, and I’ll do it.”

“Now that’s a dangerous thing to say,” Franklin murmured.

“I mean it, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because there are things in the video that’re not meant for others to see,” Alexander said. He didn’t look at the screen; averted his eyes from those small version on him and Burr holding onto each other. “I don’t mind if it gets out that I was blackmailing District Attorney Jefferson, sir. But… but what’s on the video…” He hesitated.

“What are you trying so hard to keep people from seeing?” Franklin persisted. His voice was oddly gentle.

Alexander stared at the ground, shoulders hunching. “Burr, sir,” he whispered. “All that happened to Counsellor Burr.”

“You would sacrifice your entire career if it means that you will have this video?” Franklin asked. “Even if I’m the only one who would ever witness the scene aside from the two of you, and I have already watched the whole thing?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Alexander nodded. “Yes,” he said, voice hoarse. “Yes, sir. I would do that.”

If Franklin asked, he couldn’t explain why. Except that what Burr had shown him in that dank and dark little cell was sacred somehow, and Alexander would do anything to keep it so. That video made everything _filthy_.

He rubbed the insides of his eyes with his knuckles, seeing stars again. He didn’t beg Franklin again; he knew it wouldn’t work.

“Counsellor Hamilton,” Franklin said. “Look at me.”

Slowly, Alexander lowered his hands. When Franklin pointed at one of them and made a beckoning gesture, he stretched it out, still staring. His confusion only grew when Franklin dropped the USB drive onto his palm.

“Weeks’s confession is already in my computer,” Franklin said. He rustled around in his drawers, took out a stapled stack of papers, and handed it over to Alexander. “Do the write-up for it and pass it to one of the paralegals downstairs.”

Alexander nodded. He took the paper and held it to his chest. His other hand remained where it was, lying flat and open on the desk.

“The video you want so much is in there,” Franklin said, nodding at the USB drive lying innocuously on Alexander’s palm. “That’s the only copy that exists. Do with it as you will.”

That. Alexander stared. His eyes turned to the drive, then to Franklin, and back to the drive again. Tremulously, his fingers closed.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, voice hoarse and choked. “I… Thank you _so much_ , sir.”

Franklin snorted. “Thank me by not being so stupid the next time,” he said, voice wry. “And do tell Jefferson and little James to do the same.”

“Well, that…” Alexander smiled weakly. “I will try, sir, but I think it’ll ring truer if it comes from you.”

“Of course I’ll have to do the work myself,” Franklin said. He shook his head, and raised an eyebrow. “Well? Your evidence has been submitted, the plea bargain doesn’t exist, and you have your video. What are you still doing here?”

Oh. Alexander stood up in a rush. He shoved the USB drive into his shirt pocket, beneath his jacket where it rested next to his heart and he could feel it pressing against his skin. “Thank you, Judge Franklin,” he said again. And then he was stumbling towards the door with Franklin waving a negligent hand at him.

Outside, Alexander did his best to not slam the door. Then he half-walked, half-fell over to the side and slumped against the wall. He stared down the hallway without seeing it for long moments.

Nothing that had just happened made any sense. Everything was given to him without him having earned any of it, and that made no sense. There was no way… His hand trembled as he drew it through his hair.

God. Burr wasn’t going to believe this, and Alexander didn’t blame him. What had happened in that office was more fantastical than any of Theo’s fairy tales.

His shoulders shook with silent laughter as he headed for the elevator. Or maybe kind and decent people really did exist in the world.

Nah. That was far too ridiculous.

***

_April 20, Wednesday_

The door decoration of the day was a print of a tasteful wall mural that depicted a woman whipping a man. A great deal of detail had gone into the shape of her fingers wrapped around the handle of a whip, while the man’s face was a blur – a mass of colours that vaguely resembled a mouth and a head tipped back. 

James was rather sure he had seen this precise mural at one of the walls of the Debauchee. This was likely a gift from Wilmot; another sign of the interconnectedness of New York’s BDSM community. In this city of millions, it seemed as though everyone knew each other.

He knocked on the door.

“Little James, is that you?” Franklin yelled. “Come in!”

Pushing open the door, James stepped inside his senior colleague’s office. He raised an eyebrow. “I see that you haven’t gotten tired of calling me that yet,” he said, keeping his voice mild.

Franklin’s seniority and position gave him a great deal of leeway when it came to his eccentricities, whether it was in terms of pictures at his office door or the nicknames he gave to people. There were a few times when he’d called John Adams a ‘garden gnome’ straight in his face.

Laughing, Franklin spun away from his computer monitor to face James properly. “It is appropriate,” he said lightly. “And one should never get tired of calling things, or people, by their proper names.”

“There’s broken logic in that sentence that I’m not bothering to correct,” James said, voice just as light but with wryness threaded within. He strode over and dropped down on the chair opposite Franklin, meeting those light blue eyes with his darker ones. “You met Hamilton yesterday.”

“Straight to business as usual, I see,” Franklin said, shaking his head. “One day, little James, you’ll learn to relax that control of yours.”

If only Franklin knew what could happen when James _relaxed_ his control. He offered the older man a thin smile and didn’t reply, sitting there in silence with his hands folded neatly in his lap as he watched Franklin bite the head off of a gummy bear.

“Whose idea was it?” Franklin asked, voice muffled by his chewing. “To send him to me, I think.”

“Which part?” James cocked his head.

“About the plea bargain,” Franklin said. He tossed the headless bear into the air and caught it between his teeth, looking at James over the top of his round glasses. “Sending him here to face up to the mess he’d made and then letting him clean up after himself. Was it your idea?”

James’s lips twitched upwards at the sides. “Thomas’s,” he corrected.

“Now that’s a surprise,” Franklin said, with no shock whatsoever in his eyes or voice. He decapitated another gummy bear with his fingers and tossed the head into his mouth. “I didn’t think he’d be so kind to someone who had blackmailed him.”

So Hamilton had told Franklin about that part. And, given Franklin in general, James had no doubt that Hamilton had blabbed about the blackmail material he had used either. He fetched the older man a mirthless smile, “He’s not entirely incapable of altruism.”

“Maybe not,” Franklin said, rolling another gummy between his fingers. Then he lifted his head up, meeting James’s eyes again with a too-knowing look in his own. “But every act of altruism arises from a rather selfish principle. He’s quite like you, in a way.”

Caught in the act; James expected no less. He shrugged, keeping his hands in his lap. “I’m only here to offer my services as a sounding board,” he said lightly.

“And to gain advanced information that you might give your dear Thomas,” he curled the name around his tongue lasciviously, and added a wink for good measure, “for his closing argument so that it sounds like I agree with him completely.”

Stilling his fingers before they could twitch, James widened his smile, showing a hint of teeth. “That chronology is unfair,” he said. “Any information I take for his closing argument is only to help support your speech in the future.”

Franklin peered at him for a long moment before he held out a hand. “Let me see your phone, little James.”

James slipped it out of his jacket pocket. He placed it on the table, flipped it around so that it faced Franklin, and pressed the button to light the screen up. He slid the phone over the desk. Franklin took a cursory look, snorted, and pushed it back.

There were no ongoing calls, and the voice recorder wasn’t switched on. James wasn’t such a fool as to use this particular trick with Franklin. He wasn’t stupid enough to use any tricks at all.

“You might have a point there about letting his closing argument support my concluding statement,” Franklin said, folding his hands on the table. He gave James a small smile, eyes bright with amusement behind his glasses. “But I can say the same for Hamilton and Burr.”

“True,” James conceded the point. “But they don’t have the kind of influence on the public that Thomas does. And that might be more important a consideration than Weeks’s guilt.”

“That’s something quite audacious for a judge to say,” Franklin remarked. He bit the head off another gummy bear.

Leaning back further into his chair, James shrugged. “We both know that this case might be the first of its kind,” he said. “It is the first of its kind in New York for the new millennium, and it’s a good tool to rewrite the slate from the Jovanovic case. Set a new precedent, if you will.”

“Are you aware that we’re making history,” Franklin murmured. When James blinked at him, he smiled, showing a hint of yellowed teeth, before he tapped his fingers on the folder beneath his hand. “One of the first lines of Hamilton’s opening argument. Quite a piece of work, especially since he cooked it up on the fly.”

“He’s good with improvising,” James said. Then he cocked his head to the side. “But that’s not answering the question, doctor.”

“Call me Ben,” Franklin waved a hand like he had done every single time James addressed him by that title. “But you’re right: this is setting a hell of a precedent.”

“Especially with the contract,” James said.

“That’s not really relevant,” Franklin snorted, shaking his head. When James blinked at him, he sighed, and elaborated, “Contracts are a waste of paper in legal terms. No matter how much the defence argues, it won’t hold any water because it’s not a legally-defined and drafted document. All a contract does is to make sure that subs know what they want and need and take responsibility for those things.”

It was strange, terribly strange, to hear that particular word out of Franklin’s mouth here, in his office nestled in the heart of the legal system of New York. He had known Franklin’s preferences, of course – he and Wilmot were very different men, but they were similar in this particular way – but that cold knowledge did not blunt the visceral shock of hearing Franklin speak from a sub’s perspective.

He shook his head hard, clearing his thoughts. That didn’t matter at this point.

“But if you take that definition of a contract,” he said slowly, “it means that Sands is taking responsibility for the consequences of his actions.”

“No,” Franklin said. He waggled a finger in James’s face. “Responsibility for wants and needs, not for the consequences. Two different things.”

“How are they different?” James frowned.

“Admission, and taking responsibility, of one’s own desires requires a great deal of trust,” Franklin said. His tone was still light, but his eyes had narrowed behind his glasses. “It means defining the vulnerable parts of the self and putting all of them into someone else’s hands. Trusting that those parts will not only be well-protected, but fulfilled as well.”

That was a perspective that James had never considered before. He knew about trust, of course, and he treasured every single bit of it given to him by those he had played with in the past. He treasured the small silvers of trust Thomas handed him with every show of restraint and offer of comfort. But _vulnerability_ wasn’t something he had even thought about before.

“It’s not merely a transaction,” Franklin said, confirming James’s suspicion that he could actually read minds by looking into someone’s eyes. “It’s not a sub’s control being given up for his pleasure. It’s not only trusting that someone would be honourable and keep to the stipulated terms. The trust is greater than that.”

James chewed on that, eyes growing unfocused as he turned them inward. If every single contract was a sub entrusting the whole of his self into a Dom’s hands, then…What was it that Thomas said?

“That’s too heavy,” James murmured.

“The weight has to be shared,” Franklin replied, voice just as soft. “That’s where the responsibility comes in. That’s what the safeword is for.”

Thomas’s mouth, wrapping around a word; a dead woman’s name. James had kissed him then, breathed in the rest of it, and he could feel the weight now, resting inside his lungs. Spreading out its tendrils so thickly that it threatened to suffocate him entirely.

He exhaled hard through his teeth. _Concentrate,_ he told himself.

“Those scenarios and definitions only work when you operate under the assumption that Doms do not mean to do harm, and any harm accrued is accidental,” he pointed out when he had regained at least some of his composure. “But Weeks’s confession shows that he’s an anomaly.”

“Weeks is a disgusting psychopath,” Franklin said, lips twisted into an expression too ugly to be a smile. “But I wasn’t talking about him. Like you said, he’s an anomaly.”

Pieces snapped together. James cocked his head. “How are you going to bring in BDSM conventions and norms when neither the defence nor the prosecution have spoken about either?”

“Well,” Franklin steepled his fingers together. “That’s what your Thomas is for, isn’t it?”

Biting back the comment that Thomas wasn’t _his_ , James narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Jefferson’s opening argument was all about consent,” Franklin said dryly. “About whose consent counts in which situation, and he spoke a lot about power.”

“Yes,” James nodded. “I know.”

“Thought so,” Franklin said, satisfaction flashing across his eyes. “Some parts of his argument in themselves sound like what you would say.” Then, waving away James’s protests before they could even form in full, he continued, “He needs to start talking not only about power, but about trust as well. Make it clear that Weeks is an anomaly, and that the case is one of an abuse of trust. Then hopefully Hamilton – or Burr, whichever – will have the sense to pick up on the same thread with their argument about giving people liberty to make their own choices.”

Narrowing his eyes, James leaned forward. “How long have you been planning for this to happen?” he asked softly. 

Franklin met his eyes for a moment before he burst out laughing. He spun around in his chair, grey-and-white hair flying around his face as he cackled loud and long in James’s face. James glared harder, but, like always, it had no effect.

“Oh, little James,” Franklin said, the words barely coherent in between his raucous chuckles, “you’re under the mistaken impression that I’m some kind of chess grandmaster, moving all of you like pieces on the board.”

His lips twitched, and he shook his head. His laughter died down as he stopped spinning, and he leaned across the desk and met James’s eyes with his bright blue ones. “Let me give you a piece of advice for this job,” he said, lips twitching. “Always be ready to fly by the seat of your pants.”

“What?” James blinked.

“Adaptation, boy, adaptation!” Franklin said, flapping both hands in his direction. “Make use of whatever it is the lawyers give to you and _use that_ for your own agenda.”

“Aren’t judges supposed to be objective?” James asked wryly, cocking his head to the side.

“We’re supposed to see from all possible perspectives and choose the best one,” Franklin corrected. “We’re chosen as judges because we supposedly see and know better than everyone else in the courtroom. That’s not objectivity, that’s knowledge. Objectivity is a pipe dream.”

Thomas would be terribly shocked if he heard this, but James wasn’t. He always suspected that Franklin didn’t much believe in ideals: the man was too pragmatic for such things.

“I see,” he murmured, leaning back into his chair again. “One last question, doctor: were you chosen for this case, or did you choose yourself?”

Tilting his head to the side, Franklin blinked. He resembled, in that moment, an overlarge bird. “Does it make a difference?” he asked.

“No, I suppose not,” James said. He rocked forward on his chair and stood up, one hand sliding into his pocket. He took his phone from the desk and slipped it into his jacket pocket again before holding that out. “Thank you, doctor. That has been… enlightening.”

“Will your dear Thomas be amenable to doing what I said?” Franklin asked. He didn’t take James’s hand.

“That’s for him to decide.” James said, his lips curving upwards. “Because he’s not mine. Not in the way you’re implying.”

“Now that is _actually_ a surprise,” Franklin said, levering himself up from his chair with an exaggerated sigh. He took James’s hand and matched his smirk. “You’ve gotten me curious, but I suppose that more questions will not yield any answers.”

James didn’t bother replying. He only stepped back, inclining his head towards Franklin for a moment.

“Good day, doctor,” he said, and headed for the door.

“One day, you’re going to call me Ben, little James,” Franklin said, sounding more amused than threatening.

Turning, James met those blue eyes over his shoulder. He gave Franklin a smile more genuine than any other he had given during this meeting. “On the same day I convince you to stop using that nickname,” he said, and slipped out of the door before Franklin could reply.

He stood there outside the door, staring thoughtfully at the wide hallway. If, as Franklin had said, there was no objectivity and only a series of agendas, then it meant that any possible truth was the perspective the majority agreed upon based on their own desires, conscious or unconscious. It meant that the decisions he made with regards to cases – the decisions they both made as judges – were more symptomatic of their unique perspectives than any real form of objectivity.

It was a convenient enough excuse to allow a man to do whatever he liked. But James knew the consequences of that far too well to even consider buying into that philosophy. Better to hold onto the ideal of objectivity and strive towards it, because down the other path laid the skins of demons waiting to attach themselves to men.

Now that was far too melodramatic. Shaking his head, James laughed to himself as he headed back up to his own office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m actually not sure about court proceedings when it comes to offering plea bargains or submitting new evidence. Take it as dramatic license if both don’t have to go directly through the judge. I just want to write Franklin properly, leave me alone. Also, all of the books on the shelf are old classics that contain hints of BDSM. Yes, Rousseau wrote about masochistic pleasures. I’m not even kidding. It’s all over his _Confessions_. 
> 
> All of those books are written from a sub’s perspectives. There’s a reason why Sade isn’t there. 
> 
> Decent people who are not complete fuck ups are like unicorns in this fic, and will be treated as such.
> 
> PS: I’ve opened up prompts for Jefferson/Madison, Burr/Hamilton, and Eliza/Maria on my tumblr [here](http://evocating.tumblr.com/post/148931276609/so-uh). Please drop something if you like. (This fic is already complete; I’m not posting it all because I have edits to do. So I have time to write prompts without compromising the schedule.)


	25. here’s the pièce de résistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Levi Weeks gets screentime, depiction of panic attacks involving rape, a lot of self-hatred and guilt (people in this fic are still absolute messes, though they’re supporting each other now), and mid-scene POV changes. (One very long continuous scene, four POVs.)

_April 21, Thursday_

“Before the court calls for the defendant Levi Weeks to approach the stand, there is a new piece of evidence that has been submitted,” Franklin announced. He turned, and nodded towards one of the court officials at the side, who had brought a small table with a laptop and a pair of speakers to the middle of the courtroom.

“Counsellor Hamilton submitted this recording to the court two days ago, and I have cleared it as admissible evidence,” Franklin continued. “It is a recording of a conversation between the defendant Mr Levi Weeks and Counsellor Hamilton that took place on March 29, Tuesday, from thirteen-eleven to fourteen-thirteen, military time.” 

Thomas blinked, lifting his head up. A whole hour. James hadn’t taken nearly that long to listen to the recording when he was at The Debauchee… His eyes narrowed as he turned to Hamilton. He wouldn’t put it past the man to have submitted something else entirely.

“Please begin playing the recording,” Franklin said. The official nodded.

Some strange sort of crackling was emitting from the speaker. Then the clear sound of a knock. Weeks’s voice, and then Hamilton’s. Thomas tried to pay as much attention as he could, but he found his eyes sliding over to the audience stand again anyway.

Angelica was, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, present. She nodded when she noticed his eyes on her, but her attention seemed fixed upon the defence bench. On Hamilton, rather, who had his hands on the desk and who was staring with unfocused eyes in front of him. Burr, sitting right beside him, looked as if he was carved out of stone. Burr’s knuckles were almost white from how hard he was clenching his hands; he didn’t bother to hide them under the desk.

 _“Where’s your phone? Aren’t you going to ask if you can record this?_ ” Weeks was saying over the speakers.

 _“Left it in my apartment today. I was in too much of a rush to get here, I guess_.” Hamilton’s voice.

Well, Thomas could understand their nervousness: Hamilton obviously lied to get the recording in the first place. Did Franklin know about that part? He glanced at the judge, but Franklin was only sitting with his hands folded in front of him, expression still and pensive – nothing interesting there.

Ezrine Weeks’s face. She was glaring daggers at Hamilton. Thomas turned from her to her brother, and realised that Levi Weeks had somehow managed to pause in his usual sobbing. He was sitting with his cuffed hands between his knees, head tilted to the side as if hearing his own voice played back to him was confusing. 

_Monster_ , James had called him. Thomas still couldn’t see it at the moment. His brows furrowed, and he was halfway to turning to look at James when he heard—  
_  
_ “ _The right of individuals to make decisions regarding the bodies that have been signed over to them_ ,” Weeks’s voice was saying.

Thomas’s eyes snapped over to the source of the sound. Only a computer: nothing there. His breath caught in his throat. He looked at Weeks but Weeks only looked more confused than ever at the ripple that was going through the courthouse. His fingers tugged at the end of his ponytail. He was practically pouting.

A figure hovered at the edge of Thomas’s eyes. Sally. Sally looking up at him. Sally at the entrance hall, holding her fur coat tight against her body. Sally reaching out her hand. She had always looked so nervous. She had always looked so afraid. 

_You have me pinned here,_ she had said. They had made a deal but it wasn’t one that was fair, it wasn’t one that was… Thomas’s hands were trembling but there was no blood on them. Of course there wouldn’t be blood, because it wasn’t Sally’s _life_ he took, it was… it was…

“ _See, I first learned this while I was in San Jose_ ,” the light, almost sweet voice continued over the speakers. “ _There are some people who can’t really deal with the world very well. People who need help and guidance. Someone to take their hand and walk them through life._ ”

Someone made a sound. A high-pitched squeak, quickly muffled. Thomas turned his head slowly, and saw Kalessin sitting there – she was there with her parents, the second time they attended court since the very first session – and her hands were pressed over her mouth.

Distantly, Thomas remembered what she had told him back in January, after her brother’s funeral: _Elric said… With Levi, when they were… they were doing what they did, he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to take care of anything. He could just_ be.

He understood why James hadn’t wanted him to listen to this unless he absolutely had to. James. Thomas’s eyes went wide, and he looked towards the audience stand again. James was seated there, his arms crossed, hands clenched tight over the insides of his elbows. His eyes were fixed on Thomas, and they were familiar, they were warm, and Thomas tried to hold onto them—

“… _matchmaker… the prettiest dolls…_ ” 

The recording was fading out of Thomas’s hearing but he needed to focus, he needed to take notes. He needed to confront Weeks about this recording later during the cross-examination so that he did not merely win this case, but win it in such a way that it would set a good precedent. He needed to _focus_.

Tearing his eyes away from James, Thomas opened his notebook. He wrote down in shorthand as much as he remembered of what had just been played. His handwriting was atrocious but he knew he would remember every word, they were engraving themselves in his mind as he heard Weeks’s voice echo throughout the courtroom, slightly distorted by the quality of the recording. But writing was reminding him of his job. He had a job to do.

“ _Something in his eyes, you know?_ ” Weeks’s voice was saying. “ _I can recognise it immediately – I’ve seen plenty with those eyes – but… Elric. Poor Elric. He couldn’t even see it in himself._ ”

Thomas’s pen clattered onto the desk. __  
  
“ _There was no matchmaker._ ” Weeks sounded like a child. “ _So things were a little difficult. But I knew I was being kind, you see. I knew that I was doing what was right for Elric. He was made to serve. My pleasure would be his pleasure. I just had to work a little harder to make him see that._ ”

Immediately, he slapped his hand over his mouth. But it wasn’t enough: he retched hard, gagging on his own spit and rising bile as he bent over his desk. The paper was blurring in front of him. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. Mistake: he could _feel_ Weeks’s voice on his skin now, crawling beneath his clothes…

No, those weren’t Weeks’s hands. He had never touched Weeks in his entire life. The arm around his waist was too broad and strong to be his. The voice in his ear was too deep to be his. The chest behind his back was not Weeks’s, was not…

_Look at you. Look at how wet you are, baby doll. Tell me how it feels._

_I can keep you like this for hours, you know_.

Different, different. Not the same. James wasn’t doing like Weeks said. James wasn’t… He wasn’t… It was different. The situation wasn’t the same but Thomas had no words, none, and there was still Weeks’s voice, Weeks’s words, crowding into his head and morphing into James’s and Thomas couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, he was choking and choking…

The taste of salt on his mouth. Weight on his tongue. He shoved his hand harder over his mouth but he didn’t know how much he managed to muffle that instinctive gag. He needed to throw up. He couldn’t leave the courtroom because the evidence was still playing and he needed to _listen_ …

“ _Elric died happy, you know._ ” Like a child. So much like a child. “ _I told him that he was dying to serve me. That’s how he always put it. Dying to serve me._ ”

From a faraway place, Thomas heard voices. Not Weeks’s. Voices in general, yelling. “Stop! We’ve heard enough. Enough, dammit! We’ve heard enough! Please, stop it!”

That voice was familiar. An older man’s. Not Franklin. Alphonse Sands _,_ the still-rational part of Thomas’s mind told him. He tried to wrench his eyes open, and he caught a brief glance of Alphonse with his wife and daughter wrapped in his arms, all three of them shaking, before he had to squeeze his eyes shut again to swallow another mouthful of bile. The acid burned. Razors tearing open his throat.

Throat. He was on his knees (he was in the courtroom) and James’s hand was in his hair (James was over there), and James’s cock was in his mouth (James was _over there_ ) and it was sliding down his throat and he was choking, gagging, but James’s fingers were pressing on a spot ( _over there, not here, over there!_ ) and he was… He was…

Flat on his back on the bed. Weight on his hips. Sally on top of him, astride him. His face was on fire from her slaps. _Do it again. Please. Do it again, please?_ He looked at Sally and he saw the dead superimposed on her face. _Let’s see if it tastes good, yeah?_ Silk on his tongue. Silk he’d bought and given her because he wanted her to wear it, because Martha had used to wear such things whenever she thought he deserved to have them…

 _A living sex toy with your dead wife’s face_ , Sally had said. 

His throat burned from the acid. His own body melded with James’s, with Weeks’s. _Rapist,_ Sally had said. _You raped me,_ his own voice. They were all the same, all the same…

Franklin’s voice, loud and sharp, practically a roar. Thomas couldn’t make out the words. The recording stopped but the courtroom wasn’t silent. Sudden sounds of footsteps, thundering, getting closer. He flinched and tried to pull away when he felt the hand on his arm.

“Thomas,” a voice murmured in his ear. “Thomas. I need you to turn around, okay? Just turn around. Face me.” 

A woman’s voice. Not James’s. Thomas’s hand groped around him. He found the edge of the desk somehow and pushed against it, turning around on the chair. Long, slim fingers skittered over his face, and he flinched away, eyes still closed. They pried at his fingers but he shook his head. Sound of rustling. Plastic crinkling.

“You can let it out,” Angelica told him. Her hand dropped from his face and rested on his shoulder. “Let it out, okay? Just let it out.”

Slowly, Thomas peeled his hand away from his face. He ducked his head into the trash can Angelica was holding out just as the bile came up. He retched hard, knowing that he was making a complete mess of himself but unable to stop. Angelica brushed a few strands of his hair away when they threatened to stick into his mouth. Thomas held onto her shoulder.

“James,” he gasped out, remembering somehow to keep his voice low. “Where’s James?”

“Over there,” Angelica said. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw her jerk his head. “He’s with Alexander and Burr. He asked to swap.”

Of course James would know. Of course James would understand. Thomas still couldn’t put into words the difference, but it was the absence that was significant. James wasn’t coming close; he knew to stay away. He wasn’t like Thomas. He wasn’t like Weeks—

God, even thinking of the name had him gagging again. Thomas had no more bile to throw up and his stomach was seizing with its emptiness, but he leaned over and retched again anyway. His entire body was covered with cold sweat and this shirt was most likely permanently ruined but he couldn’t even think about either right now.

Angelica’s hand remained on his shoulder until the last of the tremors passed. Thomas closed his eyes, slumping against his chair. His hand flapped uselessly to the side until he felt fingers brush against his, handing him the bottle of water that was always there on his desk. He twisted the cap open with trembling hands, dropping it onto the wood, and threw back a few gulps like it was alcohol.

“Shit,” he said, wiping his mouth at the back of his hand. He looked at Angelica because she was safer than looking for James right now. “How much did I just fuck up my case with that?”

“Not much,” Angelica said. She nudged him with the hand still on the shoulder. “Look over to the jury.”

Thomas looked. The entire panel was empty save for one man who was cradling his fist against his chest while two court officials surrounded him. No, there was another one; the blond woman. She had slipped beneath the long desk, half of her pale hand visible over the edge.

“What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

“That one,” Angelica jerked her head towards the man, “punched the desk hard enough to crack the wood. There’s going to be a permanent scar there.” Her lips twitched. “The other four… Well, they left, safe to say.”

“How the hell are you so calm?” Thomas asked, blinking up at her. 

Angelica stepped away from him, and motioned with her head to the defence bench. James was standing there, shielding Hamilton and Burr from sight with his body. Or perhaps shielding them from the sight of Weeks. Even from behind, Thomas could tell his mouth was constantly moving. He wasn’t the same as Weeks. Different, different, so different…

“Madison warned me about what might happen,” Angelica said, voice soft. “That’s why I’m here.” Her eyes slid back to Thomas, and she shrugged with a wry smile. “Granted, he told me to come for Alexander, but I think we both figured that this would be how things end up.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. He rubbed his clean hand over his face. It trembled and came away covered with sweat. He shivered all over because the air-conditioning was now too cold for his sweat-covered body. He licked his lips and tried to say, “Thanks.”

She nodded. “Besides, I’ve been pretty lucky,” she said. She didn’t elaborate; she didn’t have to.

Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, Thomas took a deep breath. “I need to…” he hesitated, and looked away from her towards the audience stand. Both Alphonse and Luisa had Kalessin in their arms now, trying to soothe her. She was trembling like a leaf; they were glaring over at Weeks, disgust clear in their faces.

“Go on, then,” Angelica said. Her smile widened, and her hand left his shoulder before she headed for the audience stand with clicking heels. Thomas watched her go for a moment before he stood up on shaking legs.

His head was still spinning. There was sweat on his body, nothing but water, but he felt like he was covered in filth anyway. He tried to ignore it as he walked towards the Sands family, closing his hands over the banister separating their part of the audience stands from the courtroom and leaning against the wood.

“Hey,” he said.

It was Luisa who first looked up to him. Her hand didn’t stop carding through Kalessin’s hair. “Mr Jefferson,” she said uncertainly, sounding remarkably like how she had sounded when she had first met him in the church on the day of her son’s funeral. 

Thomas tried to give her a smile. His head spun more and the shivers threatened to wreak through his body, but he ignored both. “You don’t have to be so formal,” he said. He nodded towards Kalessin. “Is she… alright?”

“Did you know?” It was Alphonse this time, his glaring eyes turned full-force towards Thomas. “Did you know he was like… like that?”

Before Thomas could even speak, Kalessin spoke up, her voice small. “Of course he didn’t,” she said. She pulled away from her parents, batting at their arms so she could sit up by herself. She scrubbed her hands over her eyes before looking up to him. “You didn’t, right?”

“Knew that he was guilty,” Thomas told them. “But not that he’s like this, yeah.” He paused, looking over to where James was still standing with Hamilton and Burr. “I don’t think anyone realised what he was until they heard that.”

“ _She_ did,” Alphonse spat out. His glare was now directed to Ezrine Weeks, who was sitting stock still in the audience stand with her hands clasped white-knuckled in front of her. “She is his sister. She probably helped him do all those… all those _things_.”

“That’s another investigation for another time,” Thomas said. Then, before Alphonse could argue, Thomas tilted his head and met those furious dark eyes. “Hey. Don’t give him the pleasure of seeing you so angry, okay?”

 _Him_. Even though he tried to not say the name, the taste of the pronoun in his mouth made the bile rise all over again. Thomas ducked his head, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth. That meant that he was only leaning against the banister with one arm, and he swayed on his feet as the grey threatened to encroach on the edge of his vision.

“Mr Jefferson!” There were suddenly hands on his shoulders. Small, a little fleshy: Luisa’s, he guessed. “Mr Jefferson, are you alright? Do you… do you need to sit down?”

“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure them. His voice came out hoarse. “I’m okay. You don’t have to worry. I’m fine.” She shouldn’t touch him because he was just as filthy as Levi, just as dirty, deep inside.

He swayed again. This time, his arm wasn’t strong enough to hold him up; his knees buckled, crashing down onto the hard wooden floor of the courtroom. His head nearly smacked against the banister. 

There was a series of quiet whispers. Spanish. Thomas tried to concentrate, to listen. At the same time, his hand groped for the banister to pull himself back to his feet. Doing both was impossible, so he gave up on the first and focused on just getting up. It was so goddamned _cold_.

But he deserved the cold. He deserved… God, he was just like Weeks. Just because he made a deal didn’t mean he could do what he had done to Sally. Didn’t mean…

Hands again. This time on his arm, steadying him, making sure his elbow locked in place. Thomas pressed his knuckles between his eyes, trying to steady himself. He was still in court. He couldn’t fall apart, not now. He still had a job to do.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. All three Sandses were staring at him worriedly, and Thomas tried to smile again. “Didn’t mean to let you see me like this,” he said.

“Please don’t apologise,” Luisa said. “You obviously feel very strongly about this… about what this man had done to my son.” She shook her head, sniffling. 

“It’s very reassuring to know that you’ll do your best to get justice for him,” Alphonse continued for her. “Thank you for trying so hard.”

No. No, what he was feeling had nothing to do with what happened to Elric. Thomas opened his mouth, about to correct them, but he didn’t know what to say. Any explanation would be too long, and the thought of trying to tell them about the real reason was exhausting enough.

Swallowing, he said instead, “I don’t think I need to work that hard.” He dragged a clammy hand over his hair, pushing the curls away from his face. “Honestly, the recording did most of the work for me.”

This time, he was half-ready: he gripped the banister hard with both hands until he could feel the wood against his bones, and gritted his teeth as he forced away the thoughts. He didn’t try to smile; he knew it would look like a grimace.

“Still,” Luisa insisted. “Thank you.”

Kalessin was looking at him with wide, dark eyes, obviously confused. Thomas nodded to her just once, too tired to think of doing anything else, and he pushed himself away from the banister to stand on his own two feet.

“There will be justice done for Elric at the end of today,” he promised them again. This time, he truly did mean the words. “Please be assured of that.”

“We are,” Kalessin said. She looked as if she was going to say more, but then shook her head and curled back into her father’s arm, burying her face in his shoulder.

Thomas looked at the three of them as they settled back down into their seats. Then he took a deep breath and headed towards the defence bench. He didn’t look at Hamilton or Burr, making a direct beeline for James.

There was hesitation writ all over James’s features as he turned to meet Thomas’s eyes. Thomas didn’t try to smile for him either; he only reached out and dropped his hand on James’s shoulder. He squeezed, and moved a little closer on his own accord.

“You’re not like him,” he murmured into James’s ear. “I know you’re not like him.”

“Okay,” James said, just as soft. His hand reached up and brushed over Thomas’s arm, a light thing that was permissible while they were still in public and there were so many eyes on them. “I… I can’t really believe in it, but I’ll try. I’ll try to never become like him.”

“Know you won’t,” Thomas said. His eyes slid shut, and he started to shiver all over again. It was so cold. “Will you…”

“Yeah,” James said, not needing him to finish the question. “May I touch you? I’m going to hold your arm. Is that okay?”

Different, so different. Thomas nodded.

“Thanks for asking Angelica to come over,” he murmured, eyes half-open as James led him back to the prosecution bench.

“I owe her a pretty big favour,” James said. “But yeah, of course. I knew that you wouldn’t want me to come near you then.”

“You also didn’t want me to go through this twice,” Thomas said. His lips quirked up into a lopsided smile, because he didn’t need to see properly to know that James was surprised. “Like I said, you’re different from Weeks. Okay?”

If there was anyone in this room who was like Weeks, it was Thomas. But he didn’t tell James that. He still wanted James to keep touching him.

“Okay,” James said. “C’mon. We’re here.”

Thomas collapsed back into his chair. He tipped his head back so he didn’t end up dropping it on the table. He was so tired, like everything inside him had been wrung out and he was left a dry, empty husk. 

“Was that the full thing?” he asked.

“Most of it,” James said. His hand was a solid weight on Thomas’s shoulder, anchoring him to the world so he didn’t end up floating off into the fog. “Franklin cut it off before the last bit, but most of that was Hamilton leaving.”

Opening his eyes, Thomas blinked up to James. Then he squinted, and used one hand to cover his right eye, and then his left.

“I think I dropped a contact,” he said. “The left one.” Somehow, that was hilarious enough that his shoulders started to shake. Or maybe something in his head had been shaken loose enough that he found his usual infuriating annoyance to be funny.

“No use trying to find it,” James said. “You have your glasses?”

“Briefcase,” Thomas told him. He ducked his head down and took out the remaining contact, flicking it onto the desk without care. When James handed him the case, he flipped it open and put his glasses on.

Hand still on Thomas’s shoulder, James dropped down to look at him. “Wish that we were back home right now,” he said, voice low enough that only Thomas could hear him. “I want nothing more than to hold you.”

“Me too,” Thomas said. He patted the hand on his shoulder. “But then, wishes and horses and all that jazz.” 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw people starting to stream back into the courtroom. “Now go. I have to do my job.”

James looked at him for another long moment. His hand squeezed, just once, before he let go. “I’ll be here,” he said. “If you need me at any point, I’ll be here.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “I know.”

He watched as James headed back to the audience stand. Then he levered himself to his feet with his arms as Franklin entered the courtroom. The recess was over and – he glanced to the side – the jurors were all present. There were still a few empty seats in the audience, but there was no reason to wait. He didn’t look at Ezrine Weeks or her brother.

“The court now calls the defendant Levi Weeks to the stand,” one of the officials announced once everyone was seated again and court was properly back in session.

Weeks was being dragged up to the witness stand. The policemen beside him didn’t have to do it – he wasn’t resisting – but they were doing it because they could. Thomas recognised the barely-controlled rage on their faces; recognised it in the way that they practically threw the man forward when they reached their destination. 

He tried to not look at Weeks’s face, but he saw the smile anyway. He raised a hand to his mouth, feigning a cough because a gag was threatening again.

God, Thomas hoped that Burr didn’t take very long with the cross-examination. He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to sleep.

*

Despite his dark skin, the ashen hue of Burr’s current complexion still showed through. Alexander grabbed onto his arm, helping him stand as Franklin called for the defence to start their cross-examination. He kept his eyes on Burr as he approached the witness stand, but he couldn’t look at Weeks – not anymore – and so he scanned the courtroom.

Jefferson, for some reason, had glasses on. He also looked like a complete wreck. Alexander didn’t know why Madison had come to them just now instead of him, but he was thankful for it. Madison had stood in front of them and recited passages from some philosophy book from memory; had blocked the view of them from most people in the courtroom as Alexander grabbed Burr and ran his hand over his back over and over again, letting Madison’s voice pull him back out of the nightmare he was plunged back into because of the recording. 

As part of that gratitude, Alexander didn’t blame Jefferson for how he looked. He could even feel pity for the man, because his hand was trembling despite the white-knuckled grip he had on his pen.

“Mr Weeks, I have only three questions to ask you,” Burr was saying. Alexander pulled his attention back to him, and didn’t stop the swell of sheer pride when he noticed Burr’s relaxed and straight posture.

“Was the recording that played just now truly a conversation between you and Mr Alexander Hamilton?” 

Steeling himself, Alexander turned to Weeks. He was frowning, lips pursed into a pout, looking confused. “Yes, of course,” Weeks said. “I remember that day very well. I thought I found a new friend that day.”

Jesus Christ. Alexander sank his nails into his wrist so he didn’t end up screaming. He didn’t know what he would scream; just knew that he wanted to.

“I see,” Burr said, his voice even and face calm. “The second question, Mr Weeks: do you confess to pre-mediating Mr Sands’s murder?”

Weeks’s frown deepened. “Of course not,” he said. “Mr Washington asked me that question long ago, and my answer is still the same. I don’t.”

“Alright,” Burr said, still calm. “Do you, Mr Weeks, think of yourself as Mr Elric Sands’s Dom? Is that why you think yourself justified for killing him?”

“Those were two questions,” Weeks pointed out. 

Franklin’s eyes turned to Jefferson. Jefferson didn’t seem to notice: his eyes were closed, and his hand was over his mouth again. Franklin cleared his throat, but Jefferson still didn’t move.

“District Attorney Jefferson?” the judge called out. 

Slowly, Jefferson’s hand slipped from his mouth. He lifted his eyes and shook his head. “No objections from the prosecution,” he said. His voice was barely more than a croak.

It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had destroyed the testimonies of practically every single witness that Alexander and Burr had brought in. Alexander frowned, staring at him. What the hell was happening over there?

“Answer the question, defendant,” Franklin said. His voice was even colder than it had been when he spoke to Alexander.

“I don’t remember the questions,” Weeks said, blinking. He looked genuinely confused. Burr repeated himself. His hand was clenched by his side. Alexander stared at his straight shoulders, trying to impart as much strength as he could with his gaze.

“Dom is a nice word,” Weeks shrugged. “But Elric was also my darling and my lover and my partner and my fiancé. All those words work for us too. None of them justifies me killing him, though. That’s entirely because of what we are.”

His head tipped up, looking at Burr, eyes expectant. Burr, thankfully, kept his composure. He only looked at Franklin and nodded. “No more questions from the defence, Your Honour.”

While Weeks looked betrayed, Franklin looked satisfied. Alexander watched as Burr deliberately turned his back to Weeks and walked back to the defence bench, sitting down on it with his usual grace.

“You did great,” Alexander whispered into his ear, smiling. He squeezed Burr’s arm lightly.

“It was just four questions,” Burr said, sounding wry. His eyes were closed now. “And we rehearsed them.”

“Still,” Alexander insisted. “You did great, okay? You did awesome.”

“Watch the proceedings,” Burr told him. Because he was, as Alexander was starting to learn, terrible at taking compliments.

Opening his mouth, he closed it again. Better to not press the issue right now. He obeyed, turning back to the courtroom. Jefferson was on his feet, both hands flat on top of his prosecutor’s desk with his eyes closed. Alexander could see the muscle of his jaw twitching with how hard he was gritting his teeth.

Then Jefferson walked out from behind his desk. He leaned against the front of it, facing Weeks.

“Pardon me, Your Honour,” he said, still in that same hoarse voice. “I know it is against the usual courtroom procedure, but do you mind if I conduct my cross-examination from here?”

He couldn’t walk over to Weeks, Alexander realised. In fact, Alexander wasn’t sure if Jefferson could even manage to stand up entirely by his own power right now. 

“District Attorney Jefferson,” Franklin said, leaning forward on his podium and frowning. “Do you need court to be postponed to another day?”

 _Now_ Franklin was showing favouritism; he hadn’t offered that to Burr. Or, Alexander corrected himself, Burr was just better at holding himself together than Jefferson. Whose hands were trembling even as he shook his head.

“No, Your Honour,” Jefferson said. His lips quirked into a small, tired-looking smirk. “I’d rather get this over with so we can get this monster where he belongs and he won’t touch anyone else again.”

Whispers exploded throughout the courtroom. Weeks yelled, “That’s not fair!” Franklin banged his gavel once.

As silence took over again, Alexander stated flatly, “The defence has no objections to that comment.”

“None whatsoever, to any of its parts,” Burr added next to him, voice far softer.

“Hey!” Weeks shouted again. He leaned forward on the witness stand, and was immediately dragged back by the guards around him. He struggled against their grasp, eyes bright and angry as they fixed on Alexander and Burr; on his defence team. “I thought you were on _my_ side!”

Beside him, Burr went still. Alexander could feel his shoulder starting to shake beneath his hand. He squeezed harder. 

Jefferson snapped his fingers. Just once, a sharp crack that pierced through the courtroom air. Burr jerked; the trembling stopped. Weeks thankfully shut up.

“Me,” Jefferson pointed to Weeks’s face. “You pay attention to _me_ , Mr Weeks. Don’t look away, hear me?”

Weeks turned to look at him. Jefferson snapped his fingers again, and Weeks flinched like he had been slapped. When Jefferson smiled, it was with teeth.

“Why, Mr Weeks,” Jefferson said, voice soft, “do you think that your killing of Mr Sands is justified?”

Burr had argued that it would be more effective, and make for a stronger point, if the prosecutor was the one asking for the reason why Weeks refused to think himself as guilty. Jefferson would phrase the question as damningly as he could, Burr had said, and if Alexander and Burr refused to object, they would save themselves further from the possible public condemnation of defending a psychopath. Alexander hadn’t really believed him, and now he knew he was right not to: Jefferson’s question was so innocuous as to be nothing.

“You’ve already heard it in the recording,” Weeks answered sullenly. “It’s because of what we are as people.”

“Please clarify,” Jefferson said, still maddeningly polite.

Heaving a huge sigh, as if this was taking so much effort, Weeks crossed his arms in front of his chest as far as the handcuffs would let him. “There are two types of people in the world,” he said impatiently. “Those who are made to be used, and those who are made to use. It’s just how the world works.”

Alexander squeezed Burr’s shoulder harder. He swallowed down his own bile and deliberately uncurled his fist. He still had a closing argument to give and blood dripping from his hand wasn’t a good impression to make.

Jefferson’s hands were turning white against the edge of the desk he was gripping, but his voice was still soft and even when he asked, “How did you come about this philosophy?”

“It’s just _obvious_ ,” Weeks said, sighing again. He pulled a hand through his hair. “Maybe all of you are just too stupid to see it, but there’s something in people’s eyes, you know?” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing on Jefferson.

“I can see it in you too,” Weeks continued, his voice growing softer. He cocked his head, lips curving into a small, sharp smile. “You’re just like Elric. You’ll be much happier chained up somewhere, made to serve on your knees while stripped of that fancy suit, than what you’re doing now. You’ll be so much _prettier_ doing that, too.”

Before Alexander could even react, before _anyone_ could react, there was a very sharp, loud _crack_. Alexander whirled around, following the source of the sound.

Madison was slowly removing his hands from the banister of the audience stand. He flexed his fingers without looking at him. His gaze was fixed upon Weeks, and what was in those dark depths had Alexander swallowing hard, chest twisting in instinctive horror. Neither ‘rage’ nor ‘fury’ were strong enough words to describe that emotion. Madison continued flexing his hands as if he was itching to rip Weeks apart limb by limb.

Alexander still remembered that skinny guy from the debates team. But he couldn’t see that boy now. He couldn’t even see the decent man who had just helped the two of them even though he had no reason to. To be honest, those eyes didn’t resemble a man’s at all. More of an embodiment of wrath or something.

Holy _shit_.

“Don’t look at him,” he whispered to Burr.

“I’m not looking,” Burr said. His eyes were closed. “I know what I’m going to see. And honestly, I’m actually glad that he’s not looking at me like that anymore.”

Was this the Madison that Burr had to face on Monday? Alexander stared at him, then back to Burr. He dropped his head on Burr’s shoulder and took a shuddering, heavy breath. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Burr didn’t answer in words: he found Alexander’s hand under the desk, and squeezed it.

“Enough.” Jefferson’s voice. “That’s enough.”

Peeking it from the side of Burr’s shoulder, Alexander frowned. Jefferson was staring at the ceiling, not at Weeks, which didn’t make sense. Alexander shifted to the other side of Burr’s shoulder, and, okay, now it made sense: Madison had stopped flexing his hands, and his eyes looked like a person’s again.

Seriously, what the fuck is going on?

“Stop rubbing your forehead on my jacket,” Burr whispered, sounding amused. “You’re going to stain it.”

“My face is clean, just so you know,” Alexander hissed back. He linked his fingers with Burr’s and clenched tight for emphasis. “Don’t insult me like that.”

And then he deliberately rubbed against Burr’s jacket as he looked over to Jefferson again. He grinned when he heard that tiny huff that Burr made, because he knew that was how Burr laughed by now.

“So you’re saying that it’s something innate,” Jefferson was saying, meeting Weeks’s eyes squarely. “Something that only you can see.”

“That’s exactly what I just said,” Weeks huffed.

“Just needed the confirmation,” Jefferson said, giving Weeks a thin smile. “Do you know what you have done is immoral and against the law?”

Weeks frowned, cocking his head to the side. “That’s a trick question,” he accused.

“How so?”

“They are two different things.”

“Then give two different answers.”

“Of course I knew it was against the law,” Weeks drawled. “I know that, in terms of what everyone else thinks, it’s the wrong thing to do. But everyone’s wrong, because they can’t see that some people are just made to be used, you see? They are just made like that. They’re not people; they’re born to be objects, and they’re happier being objects. It’s not wrong to give them what they want.”

Jefferson closed his eyes. Then he pushed himself away from his desk, still leaning against it with one white-knuckled hand, but facing the jury now.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and turned to look at Franklin, “Your Honour, I believe that we have a psychopath on our hands. One who understands morality, but believes himself to be above it all; who understands what he is doing is wrong, but believes himself above right and wrong.”

“That’s not a question, District Attorney Jefferson,” Franklin said softly. Jefferson turned around.

“The defence has no objections that comment,” Alexander said again. He turned his head, and met Weeks’s eyes squarely. “None whatsoever, to any of its parts.”

Shifting until he was half-sitting on his desk again, Jefferson looked at them- or, well, at Burr. Burr nodded, and Jefferson smiled, showing teeth.

“The prosecution has no more questions, Your Honour,” he said. 

Franklin nodded. His eyes were narrowed behind his glasses as he looked at Jefferson, but Jefferson had closed his again, his smile fading. Franklin’s shoulders lifted, and then lowered – as if in a sigh – before he banged his gavel.

“Given the nature of this session, and this trial in particular,” he said, voice resonant in the courtroom, “I think there’s no point in waiting for the defendant to return to his stand.” He turned to look at the policemen still surrounding Weeks. “Officers, please make sure he is restrained.”

The officers grabbed Weeks’s arms and slammed him forward. His head thudded hard against the witness stand. It was unnecessarily brutal. No one said a word. Alexander couldn’t even muster up the thought of an argument to be made against it.

“District Attorney Jefferson,” Franklin said. “Your closing argument, please.”

Opening his eyes, Jefferson reached behind him. He took a sheaf of papers, stapled together and typewritten, and started to tear it apart. Vertically first, then horizontally. Then he took the pieces and ripped them into tiny little squares, letting all of them fall onto the ground. 

It was very dramatic. Alexander wanted to laugh. He shoved a fist into his mouth.

“That, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, turning to look at the jury, “Your Honour,” and back to Franklin, “was the closing argument I had drafted for today. But given the evidence submitted by the defence that we heard, I don’t think it’s suitable anymore.”

His lips curved up into a thin smile, and he crossed his arms. “Throughout this trial, the main point of contention between the defence and the prosecution had been the contract signed by Mr Elric Sands and the defendant. I argued that, in the face of the unequal power dynamics of a BDSM relationship, Mr Elric Sands’s consent is invalid. The defence argued for Mr Sands’s liberty to make his choices.”

He paused, most likely to let the words sink in. Alexander let out a small noise, no louder than a squeak. Burr elbowed him in the ribs, and he stifled himself further.

“None of that matters in the face of what we have learned,” Jefferson continued softly. “We assumed that Mr Sands had understood who, and what, the defendant is. We assumed that Mr Sands signed the contract with full knowledge of what it entails. Now all of us know that is untrue. No one knew the depths of depravity that the defendant is capable of until we listened to him speak about it.”

Not ‘until today’. Alexander blinked, cocking his head to the side. He tried to catch Jefferson’s eye, but Jefferson was looking at the jury again.

“I’d like to make an amendment to my opening argument. I stated that,” Jefferson paused, taking a deep breath. “‘Consent is irrelevant in this case because the power dynamics of the relationship is so skewed that Mr Elric Sands’s accord cannot hold up in this court.’ This has nothing to do with power. This has everything to do with information, with _honesty_. Mr Elric Sands didn’t know what he was signing up for. As a result, his consent is null and void. There is no doubt that the defendant is guilty of first-degree murder.”

Dragging a hand through his hair, Jefferson pushed himself away from the desk. “The prosecution rests its case.” He collapsed back into his chair.

“Thank you, District Attorney Jefferson,” Franklin said. “Counsellors Burr and Hamilton, your closing argument, please.”

As he stood up, Alexander squeezed Burr’s shoulder just once. He glanced at Weeks out of the corner of his eye and stepped out to the centre of the courtroom – like Jefferson was supposed to – and looked around him. He avoided Ezrine’s gaze.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Your Honour,” he began. Then he looked at the jury. “I’m not here to defend my client, but to defend my argument. I stand by my stance that an individual must be allowed the liberty to give consent for his own body. To deny that is to deny the basic human right to own the bodies that we have no choice but to inhabit. I only have one amendment to make.”

Taking a deep breath, he finally turned to look at Ezrine, meeting her dark, hateful glare head-on. “For any individual to make a choice, there must be information given,” he said, less to the court than to her. “There must be full knowledge offered, and honesty. Individuals should not have their liberties to choose taken away; they must, instead, be made honest, such that any choices are made with understanding.”

Inclining his head towards Ezrine, he turned to Weeks. He met that particular hatred with a grin full of teeth. Then he looked at the jury again

“If the point I raised sounds familiar, it is because District Attorney Jefferson took the words out of my mouth.” He paused, and shrugged. “It’s a rare case when the defence ends up agreeing with the prosecution. But then again, this case has been unprecedented from beginning to end. Counsellor Burr and I had never encountered a case when we have found it unconscionable to defend our client.” 

He stopped. Then, at Franklin’s expectant look, he added belatedly, “That is all. Thank you.” And headed back to his seat.

Franklin smacked the gavel once on his podium. “The court will now adjourn while the jury makes their decision,” he said. His lips pressed into a line when he turned to where Weeks was still being shoved face-first into the witness stand.

“Take the defendant away.”

*

Her heels on the hardwood floors of the courtroom clicked loud despite the susurrations from some of the audience moving. Aaron kept his eyes straight ahead, watching idly as the guards took Weeks away and Madison rushed out from behind the audience stands towards Jefferson. 

Ezrine Weeks stopped in front of them, arms stiff by her sides. She was dressed for battle today: perfectly tailored pantsuit, white blouse, and a pair of strappy pumps with stiletto heels sharp enough to kill. None of that was necessary with those dark, narrowed eyes trained upon them, the hate in them heavy enough to thicken the air, and the straight, stiff shoulders.

Hamilton’s hand tightened around his. They tipped their heads up almost in unison, meeting her gaze.

“May I speak to the two of you, Counsellors?” Her voice was so smooth.

“You are already speaking to us right now,” Hamilton pointed out, because he had never learned how to shy away from danger.

Lips thinning, Ezrine took a step forward. Her heel landed on the floor, the sound like a crack of thunder. “Alone,” she said, whipping the word out with the same force. “If both of you are amenable.”

Despite the politeness, it wasn’t a request. 

She had no power to order them around anymore. Whatever contractual obligations they might have towards her were already broken the moment they realised the monster she had given them to defend. Aaron could see Hamilton open his mouth to state exactly that, but he shifted his hand to Hamilton’s wrist, squeezing it for silence.

“We’ll be glad to,” he said, and smiled. “Shall we ask Judge Franklin if there is a private room we could use?”

Hamilton shot him a look, sudden and heavy, but Aaron kept his smile on and his eyes on Ezrine. He remembered what Alexander told him about the rooms in this courthouse well enough.

“I’m glad you’re being reasonable about this,” Ezrine said, voice cold. She nodded to them both, and then turned away, heading for Franklin. The air grew lighter now that her gaze was no longer a physical weight.

“Why did you agree?” Hamilton hissed in his ear. “We don’t have to do this, especially not right now.”

“Better to get it over with,” Aaron whispered back, tugging his hand out of Hamilton’s grasp as he stood up. He shoved it into his pocket to try to hide the sudden ache that went all the way down to his bones. “If we wait, her anger will have more time to fester. Her plans would solidify, too.”

“There’s not much she can do to us, right?” Hamilton asked, frowning as he stood as well. “She’s the one in the wrong this time.”

Biting back a slightly hysterical laugh, Aaron shook his head. “Don’t underestimate how a person with money can twist situations to their benefit,” he told Hamilton, lips twisting into a mirthless smirk.

Hamilton opened his mouth, but before he could reply, the sound of clicking heels returned. “Judge Franklin said that we could use his courtroom office,” she said briskly. 

“Will the Judge be accompanying us?” Aaron asked as he followed her, hands slipping into his pockets.

She turned, looking at him over her shoulder without stopping her long strides. Her lips curled up, baring teeth. “I said that I wish to see the two of you _alone_.”

Yes, Aaron decided. He was right to do this. There was a viciousness in Ezrine’s eyes, a cruelty that was unlike her brother’s but which was cut out of the same cloth. If he had refused, she would have tried again, and again, and each time her plans would have grown in cruelty and savagery.

To someone like her, it didn’t matter that they were in the wrong. It only mattered that they had been crossed, and there must be consequences dealt to those who dared. He wondered how she had managed to hide it from him all along.

Or maybe he had just refused to see.

Franklin’s gaze was a solid weight across Aaron’s shoulders as he stepped away from the doorway to his private room. Aaron caught his eye, and saw a strange look in the light blue eyes. If he wasn’t absolutely sure that Franklin had no reason to care about their fates – especially with the trouble Hamilton had given him – he would’ve read that as reassurance. That was interesting.

Slowing down his steps, he whispered into Hamilton’s ear, low enough that neither Ezrine nor Franklin could hear them, “It’ll be fine. Better here than anywhere else.”

“I don’t get why here is better than none,” Hamilton replied, brows furrowing.

There was no more time to explain. Aaron nodded to Franklin once more before he stepped into the private room. “Talk less,” he said instead.

Aaron had thought Ezrine would put on a charade for a little longer – if only to ensure that the door was locked – but her fingers were already starting to twitch in a very familiar way at the _click_ of Hamilton closing the door behind him as he followed Aaron into the room. Lightning flashed in Ezrine’s dark eyes as she turned around. Her heel clicked just once more.

Instinctively, Aaron shoved Hamilton out of the way, taking his vacated spot. Just in time, too: Ezrine’s hand landed on his face, open-palmed, the slap hard enough to snap his head over to the side. Aaron felt the inside of his cheek slice open across his teeth, pain bursting behind his eyelids. But that was far more minor than Ezrine grabbing his shirt collar and slamming him against the door. The wood rattled and white stars appeared.

“Let him go!” Hamilton was yelling. He was scrabbling at Ezrine’s wrists in a literal attempt to force her hand. Aaron tried to shake his head; no, she needed to pay attention to him and him alone, not Hamilton.

Too late, Hamilton had caught her attention. In an instant, Ezrine had let go of Aaron and was reaching out for his co-counsel, grabbing at those hands. She was far stronger than she looked, pulling his arms back in an angle that looked particularly painful. 

“How dareyou,” she hissed, the control finally gone from her voice as she spat the words out. “Levi trusted you, _Counsellor_ ,” the title now sounded dirty in her mouth. “He trusted you and so did I. How dare you talk about honesty when you are the greatest liar of all?”

Whirling around, Hamilton stared at her with wide eyes. “My lie was bigger than yours?” he asked, incredulity so thick that Aaron wondered how he wasn’t choking on it. “That’s…” he shook his head, unable to continue. He struggled more against her grip, but his usual weapons were words, not fists.

“Ludicrous,” Aaron finished for him. He didn’t reach out for Ezrine, but stood where he was, close to the door. When she turned towards him, he smiled, baring teeth. “Ridiculous.”

“Preposterous,” Hamilton chimed in, catching on.

Aaron: “Outrageous.” 

Hamilton: “Delusional.” 

Her eyes darted between one and the other of them, as if trying to make a decision about who to shut up first. Aaron made the decision for her, widening his smile even further until it was a grotesque, cheek-aching thing: 

“Shall I give you more synonyms, Ms Weeks?” he drawled out her surname, turned it into mockery.

He barely had time to brace himself before she reached out for him. Aaron could have stepped out of the way; could have sent her crashing in her blind rage into the door. But he stood there and allowed her to wrap her hands around his throat. He let her slam him back against the door, and ground his teeth hard on the broken skin on the inside of his cheek.

Blood flooded his mouth just as a heavy knocking started on the other side of the door. Aaron slipped a few drops out between his lips even as he arched, putting as much weight on his feet as he could, leaning away from the wood. It took him off balance, and he stumbled forward just as her grip tightened around his throat.

“Put your hands up!” A pair of voices. Dark, gleaming metal at the corner of his eyes. Ezrine’s hands didn’t leave his throat. Aaron was slowly running out of air, but it was easy enough to let more blood drip from his mouth, staining his chin.

Then those hands were gone from his throat, and then familiar arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him back. Aaron coughed hard, not bothering to hide the tremors that wreaked through his body as his knees went weak. Hamilton yelped, but managed to lower them both to the floor anyway.

“You’re such a bastard sometimes,” his co-counsel whispered into his ear. When Aaron opened his eyes, Hamilton’s narrowed ones were right in front of him, worry and anger and fear mixed up in them, darkening the brown even further.

“Hah,” Aaron said. He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth, deliberately pushing out the last few drops of blood so he was smearing the red all over his jaw and chin and lips instead of cleaning himself up at all. He looked up.

Ezrine was being held by her arms by two men in the uniforms of the police. Her usual poise was entirely gone, and her eyes were narrowed upon them. 

“That’s a terrible decision you made, Ms Weeks,” Aaron said. Even though he didn’t really need the help, he leaned on Hamilton as he got back to his feet. “I thought we were going to have a civil discussion about this.”

His tone seemed to snap something inside her. The savagery melted from her face, vanishing as if it had never existed. She tugged lightly at the officers’ hands still holding onto her arms. When they didn’t let go, she straightened as much as she could in her current position.

“We were going to have a civil discussion until Counsellor Hamilton here decided to provoke me,” Ezrine said, her voice absolutely calm. She kept her eyes on Aaron as she continued, “It’s a terrible thing, to be mocked about the incoming fate of one’s brother.”

Before Aaron could say a word, Hamilton cocked his head. “Is it really so horrible?” he asked. “I was merely reassuring you that Mr Weeks will receive a life sentence at most, Ms Weeks. His life isn’t in danger.”

He tilted his head, and gave her a smile that set off a near-crazed look in his eyes. “Unlike the victims you most likely delivered into his monstrous hands.”

A ripple went through Ezrine at those words. She straightened even further, tipping her chin back, neck straight and proud. “I refuse to be provoked again,” she said. “Please step carefully, Counsellor Hamilton. You’re talking about my brother. The only family I have left.”

“Is that the reason for your actions?” Hamilton asked. “Not only lying to us, but enabling and allowing your brother to perform those atrocities?”

Ezrine’s eyes turned from Hamilton to Aaron. There was a challenge in them, and Aaron smiled, showing off the red staining his teeth, before he turned to Hamilton.

“That’s too much credit,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “The explanation is surely far simpler. Like brother, like sister.” His eyes flicked back to Ezrine. “It’s a pity that the death penalty has been abolished in the state. She deserves it along with her brother.”

There it was, that sudden rage. She tried to lunge at him, but was immediately pulled back by the guards who still had hold of her arms.

“You believe that your brother deserves to be treated like a human being,” Aaron continued, voice very soft. “Yet you didn’t demand for him to do the same to others.”

Somehow, Hamilton managed to pick up his thread of thought immediately. His smile widened even further, showing his gums off as he jutted his chin out and stared at Ezrine over it. “If there’s anyone who is at fault for the way he is being treated now, Ms Weeks,” he said, voice equally quiet, “it is you.”

A single loud bark escaped her. “Do you think I don’t know that?” she asked, staring at them straight in the eye. “Do you really think I _care_ , at this point?”

Despite her tone, there was a brightness in her eyes that had nothing to do with hatred or anger. If Weeks’s words on the recording and the witness stand weren’t engraved in his mind, if he wasn’t so aware of there being a corpse involved when there should have been a man, Aaron would have felt pity for her.

Now he only met her gaze squarely, and shook his head. “If you really loved your brother,” he said softly, “you would’ve stopped him before he got this far. What you did… you weren’t saving him.”

All she had done was to allow him to drag others into the abyss he was already in.

Slumping in the guards’ arms, she turned away. Aaron nodded to himself, satisfied.

“Well, that’s another investigation and quite possibly another case,” Franklin spoke up behind him.

The judge had been leaning against the doorframe watching them all this while. Now he caught the guards’ eyes and jerked his head to the side. The men brought Ezrine out of the room.

“This room is bugged as well, right?” Hamilton asked suddenly. “Her confession is recorded?”

“Of course the room is bugged,” Franklin said, straightening. He looked as if he was going to say more, but something at the corner of his vision caught his attention. Aaron followed his gaze, and saw a couple of court officials making some kind of oblique gesture.

“Jury’s done with their verdict,” the judge announced. He tugged on the edges of his robes, pulling one side back to check his watch. “That took longer than I thought.”

Hamilton dug for his phone. Aaron shoved his wrist under the man’s nose, and he blinked. “Hah. That was barely more than twenty minutes.”

Franklin snorted. “That’s more than enough time for them to sit down and drink some coffee,” he said dryly as they followed him back into the courtroom. “I reckon they spent more time enjoying the coffee than they did to come to a decision.”

“Is the coffee actually good?” Hamilton asked, because he _would_ ask such things.

“Think about tax money, boy,” Franklin said, voice dry. When Hamilton gave him a confused stare, he flapped a hand and headed for his podium.

“He means that the coffee is rubbish,” Aaron said, less as a translation than out of some rumours he’d heard. “Most likely as an encouragement for the jury to not linger.”

“How do you do that?” Hamilton asked as they headed to the defence bench. His voice sounded odd without that accusatory note in it.

Aaron looked at him for a long moment. Then he walked around the desk and sat down behind it, sighing. “Do you mean with him,” he jerked his head towards Franklin, “or with her?”

They both turned to look at Ezrine. The guards had cleared a wide space around her in the audience stands, and were bracketing her from both sides. But whatever ferocity that had been within her just a few minutes ago was already gone: she was sitting there with her head in her hands, staring at the ground.

“Her,” Hamilton whispered.

“Don’t feel too bad,” Aaron told him, because Hamilton wore his emotions on his sleeve and Aaron could see pity written all over the cloth. When Hamilton gave him a sheepish smile, but didn’t look away or drop the question, Aaron dragged a hand over his head and considered his answer.

“There are many different types of anger,” he said finally. “I learned early enough how to identify them.”

Hamilton still looked confused. Aaron met his gaze for a moment before he tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Her hands were trembling, but her shoulders were stiff,” he elaborated, voice dipping quieter despite his efforts. “That speaks of a helpless kind of anger. Aimed inwards, but projected outwards.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it more than that.”

“Okay,” Hamilton said. He reached under the desk and took Aaron’s hand into his own, lacing their fingers together. He didn’t squeeze, simply waited with his eyes on Aaron. No expectations, either. Only something Aaron could not defined.

Slowly, he closed his fingers around Hamilton’s. He met those eyes and watched as they brightened. He didn’t know what expression was crossing on his own face. He didn’t really need to know anyway.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a court official step forward. “The jury has made their decision,” he announced.

*

James dropped back into his seat just in time. He watched as the jury streamed back into their seats, most of them looking grim and determined, with a hint of relief. The man cradling his bandaged hand was still glaring daggers at Weeks; James could understand just how he felt. 

The chief juror, a tall and broad-shouldered Asian American woman with her waist-length hair tied back in a ponytail, stepped forward. She held a piece of paper in her hand.

“I don’t think our decision will be much of a surprise, given what we all heard earlier in the day,” she said, voice wry. When Franklin flapped a hand in her direction, she raised an eyebrow at him for just a moment before turning back to her paper, unfolding it.

“We as a jury have voted unanimously for the verdict of guilty,” she said. She paused just in time for the sound of Weeks being slammed back hard into his chair, the force of it hard enough to choke the sounds from his throat. James didn’t turn to look at him.

Her dark eyes scanned the courtroom for a moment before returning back to the paper. “We also call for further charges to be levied against the defendant, one Mr Levi Weeks,” she read out. “Given the crimes he has confessed to in the recording submitted by Counsellor Hamilton, we as a jury believe that there should be further investigations made.”

Pausing again, she folded her paper. Then she nodded. “That is all.”

No one in the courtroom looked particularly surprised by the verdict. James spared a glance to Ezrine Weeks – she was still seated with her head in her hands like she had been since she returned from that meeting with Hamilton and Burr – before he looked back to Thomas. He watched as Thomas slowly opened his eyes and took off his glasses. He calculated the inches of that rising chest, and counted the seconds as Thomas sat up again instead of slumping over his chair.

 _Stop_ , he told himself. He needed to stop doing that. Too much attention. Even if he didn’t say a word, the weight of his gaze was surely suffocating even across the room. James forced his eyes to turn to Franklin, who had finished going through the motions of thanking the jury.

“The convicted Mr Levi Weeks will serve life imprisonment without parole,” Franklin pronounced. He banged his gavel, pre-emptively stopping the whispers before they could begin, and gave the courtroom a thin smile. “Despite the fact that, like the forewoman of the jury has said, there are still charges for Mr Weeks to answer to, there will be no justice if he is not given the maximum penalty for his crimes against Mr Elric Sands. Those later trials will have to find their own further penalties.” 

Then, placing his gavel back down to its stand, Franklin leaned forward, fingers steepled in front of his face. He didn’t speak for long moments. As James watched, many members of the audience and half of the jury leaned forward. His lips twitched when he saw Thomas subtly roll his eyes.

“As Counsellor Hamilton said in his opening argument, this trial is supposed to make history,” Franklin began. Though his voice was quiet, it resonated throughout the courtroom, strong enough to sink straight into the listeners’ bones. “There are very few precedents for cases like these; so few that both defence and prosecution had to pull up examples from outside of the United States because there were practically none in our country.”

Pausing again, Franklin’s eyes scanned the courtroom. “Counsellor Hamilton was wrong in his statement, though he did not know it at the time,” he continued. He flashed Hamilton a small, thin smile. “This case does not make history. Despite the previous court sessions, this case is not about the legalities of private contracts made between individuals regarding their bodies. It is not about an individual’s right to choose the harms and dangers he is exposed to in another individual’s hands. Unfortunately for many of our reporters here, it is not about BDSM.

“It is not about BDSM, or sadomasochism, or any term you’d like to give it,” Franklin repeated. “This trial steps only on well-trodden ground, as evidenced by the swiftness of the jurors to decide upon their verdict. The convicted Levi Weeks’s guilt is determined not by rhetoric but by his own admission. We have set no precedents here with this trial and this verdict.” 

Eyes narrowing behind his glasses, Franklin straightened. “No precedents could be set by the court until there is a case that truly involves BDSM instead of abuse.” 

A few words, and Franklin had drawn a clear, sharp line in the sand between BDSM and abuse. It was a good soundbite as well. Clever, really, and nothing less than what James expected of him.

Still, he couldn’t help the chill that went down his spine. It was a good line to feed the public, something that would ensure that there would not be new laws created out of panic or fear. But the darkness and distinctness of the line drawn was merely an illusion. James could still feel the silk of those ties under his hands if he flexed them. He could hear, like an endlessly ringing echo, Thomas’s pleas: _no, stop, please, I can’t, James…_

Franklin banged the gavel. The spell he had cast over the courtroom broke instantly at that moment. James lifted his head. The echoes continued, but he pushed them to the back of his mind.

“Case closed. The convicted can file an appeal within fourteen working days,” his lips twisted into a sharp smile, as if saying, _If anyone could be found to be his lawyer._ “Court is dismissed.”

No one moved for a long moment. James looked at those around him – so he wouldn’t give into the urge to stare at Thomas again – and saw something in their eyes that he recognised. It was shock, and a little bit of disappointment. As if no one could believe that the trial was over, just like that. As if life imprisonment without parole wasn’t nearly enough. James saw in them an urge for a climax: lightning flashing in the insides of the courtroom, perhaps. Weeks screaming as he was being dragged away, maybe.

But the courtroom was the same as ever, and Weeks was silent as he was taken back to his holding cell, unresisting in the guards’ overly-rough grips. His head was down, so there was no drama in to be seen in his eyes either. No drama from Ezrine either, who remained motionless even as eyes fixed upon her, waiting for her reaction.

The heavy doors of the courtroom slammed behind Weeks. Franklin banged the gavel again. “Get out of here already,” he said impatiently.

Slowly, people began to stand. Many of their eyes remained fixed on Ezrine Weeks as they moved out, but she seemed determined to not give them any sort of reaction, continuing to huddle in her seat. 

James was so focused on keeping his eyes on the audience that he didn’t notice Burr’s approach until the other man was right in front of him.

“Thanks,” Burr said. When James cocked his head, he smiled. “For what you did just now. You didn’t have to.”

“It wasn’t for you,” James told him bluntly. Burr had only been a bargaining chip in his deal with Angelica. Or, rather, a buffer such that they wouldn’t need to admit that they were both here merely for Thomas’s sake. Though she was doing a much worse job than James in pretending: she had already left.

“I know,” Burr nodded. For all of his faults, he wasn’t a particularly stupid man. “Still, it was appreciated.”

Shrugging, James unclasped his hand and leaned back further against his bench. He tried to not peer over Burr’s side to look for Thomas. Thomas said he would come over when he was ready.

So his eyes slid over to the other side of the courtroom instead. Hamilton had finished packing up his case files, and was shifting from foot to foot, obviously waiting for Burr. James’s lips twitched upwards.

“Be careful with that one,” he nodded towards Hamilton, who noticed the scrutiny and was now trying to simultaneously stare at his hands and James. “He’s a wildcard.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Burr said, voice wry; he knew better than to deny his feelings for Hamilton to James, at the very least. “Though I’d say he’s a hurricane.”

A force of nature who broke through Burr’s walls; the same walls that had such strong foundations that no one had nudged them before. No one, James corrected himself, save for Burr’s wife, and he doubted that even she had blown apart so much of Burr’s defences as Hamilton did. Likely not because of her efforts, but her nature.

He shook his head. “That’s a dangerous line of thought,” he told Burr, meeting those dark eyes with his own. “Hurricanes cannot be harmed. Cards could still be tossed into the wind and torn, if one isn’t careful.”

Burr’s eyes narrowed, because he really was too clever a man to not immediately put the pieces together. He dropped his hands onto the banister, and carefully turned his body around.

James could see Thomas now. He was standing up, leaning more of his weight on his arms than on his legs, as he spoke to the Sands family. James’s hands twitched, and he clasped them back together again. Not yet.

“I see,” Burr murmured. His eyes flicked down to James, and he cocked his head. “Thank you for the warning.”

“Again,” James fetched him a thin smile, “it wasn’t for you.”

Thomas was starting to sway on his feet. James decided that there were some issues that were less overprotective pushing than justified concerned, and this was one of them. He nodded to Burr, and then Hamilton, and headed straight for the prosecution bench without bothering with further pleasantries.

“Mr Sands, Mrs Sands,” he greeted them, plastering on the most harmless and polite smile he could manage. He kept his hands in his pockets, and looked down to the teenage girl who was tucked under her father’s arm. “And you must be Ms Sands.”

They blinked at him, clearly surprised at his sudden appearance. James ignored Thomas’s stare. Just for the moment.

“Judge James Madison,” he introduced himself. “My apologies, but I must cut your conversation with District Attorney Jefferson short. I believe that it’s in all of our best interests to head back home to rest.”

“What he means,” Thomas drawled, amused, “is that he’s my best friend, and he’s here to drag my sorry ass home, so you don’t need to worry, and you can go home, too.”

Then he dropped his elbow onto James’s shoulder, leaning his weight on him. James caught the edge of the table, kept his smile on, and tried to not let slip too much of the pure joy that Thomas was allowing him this to show on his face. He measured his exhale.

“Oh,” Mrs Sands said. “I see. Well…” She hesitated. “Will you be alright, Mr Jefferson?”

“Fine,” Thomas said. “Just tired.”

“The case has kept him up for too many nights,” James said. For some reason, that made the young girl widen her eyes as she stared between them. She didn’t say a word, however.

“Alright then,” Mr Sands said. “We’ll head home now. Just… thank you so much, again.”

Thomas nodded, a few heavy curls brushing James’s face. His body was very warm, this close. “You’re welcome,” Thomas said, voice soft. “Do you have a ride?”

“We’ve called for a cab,” the young girl piped up. “We’ll be fine.” 

They headed out of the door while constantly looking backwards, as if checking to see if Thomas hadn’t managed to collapse into a pile in the seconds they had taken to take a few steps. This, James realised, wasn’t really the normal relationship between a prosecutor and the victim’s family. He raised an eyebrow, turning to Thomas.

“You’ve gained quite a following with them,” he said.

Giving him a soft, hazy smile, Thomas shook his head. “They’re good people, that’s all,” he said. His shoulders shook for a moment, and he pulled off his glasses and scrubbed his fingers over his face.

“Christ, I’m tired.” Before James could open his mouth, Thomas shook his head. “Let me walk out of here on my own, at least. I can still do that, so let me do that.”

Biting his lip, James nodded. “You don’t have to ask permission for your own actions,” he said, because he had to.

“I know,” Thomas said. “Wasn’t really asking for permission. Just had to say it.” He took a deep breath, and pushed himself away from the desk. He swayed slightly, but managed to steady himself on his own two feet. 

James stepped back and didn’t offer to take Thomas’s briefcase – at some point between the end of Franklin’s speech and before the Sands family came over, Thomas had packed all of his papers back in – but only watched him as he started walking towards the door. He shoved his hands into his pockets so they wouldn’t hover around Thomas’s body.

“May I touch you?” he asked when they reached the elevator that would take them to the carpark. “Just your arm. You can lean against me for this final stretch.”

“Just… just a bit more,” Thomas said, words slurring together. He ground his knuckles against his forehead, and slumped against the wall. James bit his lip and nodded.

The elevator’s door opened. Thomas stumbled inside. James didn’t reach out to take his arm even though he wanted to. The too-bright fluorescent lights made clear the paleness of Thomas’s sweat-slicked skin. He continued to sway on his feet.

“James,” Thomas said once they were out of the elevator.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I should’ve… Shouldn’t have been so…” James strode forward until he was in front of him, and his breath caught at the sight of those eyes, unfocused and glazed over. “Catch me?”

When Thomas’s knees buckled, James caught him before he was in any danger of hitting the ground. The briefcase dropped, however, and its crash echoed in the cavernous carpark. James stared at it, and looked at Thomas.

He wasn’t asleep. His breathing was far too erratic. James slipped a careful hand over his wrist, feeling the shallow, rapid pulse. His skin was so cold all of a sudden. There was a crease between those brows. His lips were parted. Caught in the in-between of consciousness and unconsciousness, fully snared in the grip of exhaustion. James knew what this was, but he had never seen Thomas like this.

James didn’t touch his face. He didn’t brush his thumb over those lips like he wanted to. He picked up the briefcase, placed it carefully over Thomas’s stomach, and slipped one arm around the broad shoulders and the other beneath the long legs. He carried Thomas to the car, and opened the backseat door with some kind of acrobatics he hadn’t realised he was capable of until now. He laid Thomas down over the backseat.

It would be so easy to kiss him right now. To taste him like he hadn’t since that day Thomas came back to him. It would be so easy to just slide off his suit jacket and peel off the now-soaked shirt and…

His hand dropped onto a shoulder. He shook Thomas gently. “Hey,” he whispered. “Hey.”

Slowly, Thomas opened his eyes. He squeezed them back shut immediately, and tried to drop an arm over them. His glasses got into the way. James took them when he yanked them off.

“I carried you from the elevator,” he told Thomas quietly. “I’m going to bring you home, now. If you’re too tired to walk, can I carry you up the house?”

Thomas reached out a hand, flailing it in the air. When James reached his out, he caught it.

“My eyes were closed but I still felt things, you know,” Thomas rasped. He was facing James but his eyes were unfocused, most likely due to not having his glasses. “You didn’t touch me. You’re not like that bastard, okay? It’s okay.”

Then he lifted James’s hand and pressed a kiss over the knuckles.

James couldn’t breathe again. He gripped the edge of the car roof with his other hand so he wouldn’t lunge inside and kiss Thomas properly. He exhaled through his teeth, turning that frustration-irritation-rage he felt towards himself into a knife to try to carve out that damned inappropriate desire. 

It didn’t really work.

“Trying to not be,” he said, swallowing hard. 

“And that makes a world,” Thomas yawned, “of difference.”

“Go to sleep,” James told him. He squeezed Thomas’s hand, allowing himself that touch because it meant that he wouldn’t be touching Thomas’s hair or face or mouth. “I’ll wake you when we reach the house.”

“Nah,” Thomas said. “Bring me up to the guestroom?” He gave James a sweet, hazy little smile. “Need to shower, though. Or change, at least.”

“Yeah,” James murmured, and didn’t offer to help him with either. He kept himself there, head ducked beneath the roof of the car and hand holding Thomas’s, until Thomas’s breathing evened out and he slipped into a more peaceful sleep. His shoulders and neck and back were aching something awful, especially since he’d carried Thomas just now, but he could barely feel the discomfort.

He drove them back to his house, and carried Thomas to the guestroom upstairs. Thomas woke up, took a shower, and changed. James didn’t watch. He hovered at the hallway, waiting for Thomas’s half-shouted, half-slurred _goodnight_.

Then he bandaged his hands and went outside to punch a tree.

Though he tried to imagine Weeks’s face on the bark, it kept shifting to his own. He punched harder.

It was long past midnight when his knuckles hurt enough for him to stop. He shoved them into a bucket of ice water. After he made sure that Thomas wouldn’t be able to tell what he had been doing, he took a shower and went to bed. He didn’t approach the second floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trial is finally over, oh my God. Hallelujah. /dies. I never have to write court proceedings again, hopefully. (The last time I said that was when I was writing _all sinners crawl._ And then I wrote this epic where everyone is a lawyer. FML.) More importantly and permanently, I never have to write Levi again.
> 
> Things are slowly getting wrapped up. The emergency services have finally reached the five car pile-up. And the people trapped in the wreck are slowly learning to save themselves and also each other.


	26. we dream in the dark for most parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming back into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: discussion of rape, depiction of panic attack. Second scene: discussion of childhood abuse and marital abuse.

_April 22, Friday_

James was making an effort to crunch his feet against the grass as he approached, but Thomas didn’t open his eyes. He simply brought his cigarette into his mouth, taking a long drag before letting the smoke escape from his lips.

The skies were barely orange, the first rays of the rising sun streaking across the darkness. Most of the stars were already disappearing, drowned out by the light. They couldn’t be seen very well anyway – even in the suburbs, there was too much pollution.

“It was raining the week before last in Virginia,” he said quietly. “It didn’t start until I reached the first epiphany of the weekend, but the storm came very fast. Dark clouds rolling over the skies. The winds were howling outside the windows, and it stormed so hard that it knocked some of Martha’s roses over. At some point, I looked outside and thought… Maybe my thoughts called the storm somehow; brought it in to wash everything clean.”

Tobacco tasted harsh on his tongue; the fire burned on his throat. Thomas took another drag.

“But it was just the weather, wasn’t it? Some trick of wind and clouds and water and mountains that made it storm just when I needed it to.” He blew the smoke up to the sky. “I’ve been hoping that it’ll rain for hours now, but it hasn’t.”

“How long have you been awake?” James asked.

“Long enough to walk down to Main Street and grab these,” Thomas said, raising his new pack of cigarettes, the lighter, and the makeshift ashtray. He shook the box in James’s direction; it was still mostly full. “Long enough to walk back, too.”

“You could’ve woken me,” James said. He took a step closer, and dropped down to sit with his back against another tree, a little distance away from Thomas.

“Didn’t want to,” Thomas said. He crooked a smile in James’s direction without looking at him. “You needed to sleep. Especially with how late you headed in last night.”

When James went still, he sighed. Taking the last drag from his cigarette, he stubbed it out before rocking forward to his feet. He turned around and brushed his fingers over the scars on the tree, the wounds so fresh and new that the insides, exposed by the torn-off bark, were still bright orange.

“Besides, I needed the time to think anyway,” he said. “Took a walk and everything to try to do that.”

“Oh,” James said. His shoulders were tense against his tree, which had scars too. Thomas glanced over before he rubbed his fingers over the trunk in front of him. Pieces of dark brown flaked off to reveal more raw orange, and he bent, picking up his pack and drawing out another cancer stick with his teeth.

“Please don’t smoke so much,” James said. “I can leave if you want, but please don’t smoke so much.”

Thomas lit the cigarette. He took a long drag, letting it out slowly. The cloud coalesced in the air in front of him, lingering until he exhaled again to dissipate it.

“Had a nightmare,” he told the leaves ahead. “In it, I was Weeks. Or I was looking at myself, turning into Weeks. Looming over someone. My shadow covered the face until it was too late. I saw how Sally’s eyes would look if she was dead.”

James didn’t say a word. Thomas’s shoulders shook as he took another drag. “I saw how your eyes would look if you were dead.”

“That’s—” James started. When Thomas shook his head, he subsided back into silence. He didn’t stand up.

“Maybe it was right to not have rained,” he said. He scraped at the bark again, breaking off more pieces and watching them land on the grass. He scuffed his shoe against the bright green blades, returning bark to soil. “If it rained, it would mean that everything is over. But it’s not over, is it?”

“Do you want it to be over?” James asked. He wasn’t talking about the trial anymore.

“Not if it means that you’ll be gone,” Thomas said. He flashed a smile to his side, the barest upward twitch of the lips. “I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t have the nightmare because of you. And…”

He drew his thumb from the beginning of the scars and moved it down. Some of the splinters broke off, but none pieced his skin. He was brushing too lightly; he didn’t do that anymore, especially in front of James.

“When I told you that you weren’t like him, I meant it,” he said, still keeping his voice low. He stubbed out his cigarette against the inside of the tree, leaving a streak of grey. He rubbed that away while flicking his cigarette towards the ashtray. “You don’t have to keep trying to not be like him. You already aren’t.” He closed his eyes.

James stood up. The morning was so quiet in this deserted part of New York that Thomas could hear the grass rustling beneath his feet. It felt like they were the only two people in the world right now. That thought didn’t scare him even though he knew it should.

“You’re not like him either,” James told him. “You weren’t doing what you were because you knew and you relished in it like he did. You didn’t do what you did because you thought you had the right.”

“But I did think I had the right,” Thomas said. He fell forward, forehead pressing against the trunk in front of him. The bark here was still intact, and it was rough on his skin. “I made a deal with Sally. I thought the money I was giving her made up for what I was doing.”

“What you were doing,” James said. His fingers ghosted across Thomas’s shoulders, but didn’t land. “You’re not doing it anymore. You didn’t keep on doing it after you realised it was wrong.”

“Does that make a difference?” Thomas asked. “Does it erase what I did?”

“I want to tell you that it does,” James said. “I want to tell you that you’re now making up for it. But I know you won’t believe me. Those words will have to come from Sally.”

Thomas shuddered, biting his lip. He wanted James to hold him right now, but that wouldn’t be right. Not only because James didn’t need to have his control tested all over again, but because Thomas didn’t deserve that comfort.

“She’s not going to forgive me,” he murmured. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t feel any of it. “And she’ll be right not to forgive me.”

Another rustling of grass. James moved from Thomas’s side to a little further away; probably leaning his weight against the trunk.

“Maybe she will, maybe she won’t,” James said. “That’s up to her. But Thomas... You forgave me.”

“Yeah.” Thomas couldn’t blame him even if he tried. He knew what James had been trying to do; knew that he practically forced him into it with his own actions, his own choices. None of that made what James did to be right, but Thomas understood and forgave. He couldn’t do anything else.

“But I still blame myself,” James said. He took a shuddering breath, the sound of it harsh in the still morning air. “Even though you told me I shouldn’t, I still do. When you tell me I’m not like him, I can’t believe you. Does that mean that I’m not listening to you again? Am I doing the same thing?”

“No,” Thomas said. The answer came easily. He pushed himself away from the tree, meeting Madison’s gaze through heavy-lidded eyes. “It’s not the same.”

“How?”

“You listen whenever I tell you to stop,” Thomas murmured. His eyes didn’t leave James’s. “When I need you to stay away, you stay away. Just… just because you can’t believe in what I say about you doesn’t mean that you’re doing the same thing all over again.”

“Why is it different?” James asked.

There was a particular shade to James’s eyes that reminded Thomas of that night back in that house that he no longer thought of as his; when James had sat opposite him and gone over the first draft of his opening statement with him. He had peeled apart each and every single tenet of Thomas’s argument, proving him wrong, guiding him down a path with shadows that had petrified Thomas to even look at.

But James was with him, and so Thomas followed down that path. Maybe he took a different route – a route that someone else showed him to exist – but the first person who had guided him down was still James.

Closing his eyes, Thomas followed again.

“Because you’re listening,” he breathed out. “Because you’re trying to do better, this time.”

“If you can tell me that, then you must tell it to yourself, Thomas,” James said, his voice so infinitely gentle.

“Kant’s categorical imperative,” Thomas said, head thudding against the tree again. “A law that cannot be universalised should not be held onto.” A tremor wreaked through him just once. “But he’s wrong. He’s very, very wrong. Rawls, too, and Bentham. They were all wrong. I can’t hold onto them anymore.”

Degrees of actions. Contexts, circumstances. All those things made a difference. What constituted utility, in the end? What could be said to be universally agreed upon? The definition of rape was sex that happened without the consent of one or both parties. Yet Thomas could forgive James, and he couldn’t forgive himself. He didn’t think anyone could forgive him. No one should.

“They’re not wholly wrong,” James said in that same quiet voice. “You were taking them to the extremes, trying to make them apply to everything.”

“Not everything,” Thomas said. “Not me.”

 _Hypocrite_ , Sally had accused. _Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite_.

“Then you’re repeating your mistake.” When Thomas’s eyes snapped open, James smiled with crooked lips and downturned eyes. “Whether it is to excuse or to blame, making yourself the exception is just repeating the same mistake all over again.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Thomas gritted out a breath. “Can you really believe that?”

Silence. James was leaning against the tree again. “No,” he said. He tipped his head up, staring up at the thin canopy. “I know you’ve forgiven me. I know that I’m not like him, not wholly. But what I did to you and what he did to Elric Sands could be defined the same way. I have to… I have to keep trying to…” He choked, and turned away.

“James,” Thomas whispered. Unbidden, his hand reached out. His fingers brushed James’s cheek very lightly. Dark eyes went wide. “Touch me?”

Tremulously, James’s fingers wrapped around his. Thomas took a step forward. He leaned in, and pressed their mouths together. Carefully, very carefully.

It wasn’t enough: James’s hands grabbed onto his shoulders, spinning him around. Thomas felt the air leave his lungs as he was slammed against the tree. There was still the smell of cigarettes lingering on his skin but that wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough because. James’s body around him, bracketing him in, surrounding him utterly and there was no air, _no air_ —

“Stop.” A strangled whisper. He could barely hear himself. James’s tongue in his mouth, sliding between his teeth. Thomas’s head spun and he could taste bile again- His hands, his hands were trapped between their chests. He tried to move them, but he managed barely a twitch. James tilted his head, slid his tongue back just an inch—

“Please,” Thomas gasped. “Stop. James, stop. Please. _Please._ ” 

The weight disappeared. The tree opposite rocked when James threw himself back hard enough to shake it. Leaves fell, some scattering over short, dark curls. Thomas bent over and fell to his knees, pressing his hand over his mouth as he retched. His stomach was seizing again.

“Oh God.” The sound of heavy, wrecking coughs.

Thomas shook his head. He tried to speak, but words were too heavy, wriggling at the back of his throat. He gagged again, harder this time, feeling as if he was trying to throw up his stomach. Or maybe both lungs at the same time, squeezing into the narrow passage of his throat.

“Don’t go,” he managed to say somehow. “Stay.”

Though his voice was nothing more than a wreck, James didn’t move. Thomas could see the way his knees trembled. Then he had to close his eyes again, forehead pressing into the grass as tremors wreaked through him. Sweat-salt and heavy-musk and what he now knew was the sour scent of come in his nose. Thomas tried to take a deep breath but gagged again.

“I’m so sorry,” James was saying, over and over, as he slid down to the ground. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

He sounded wretched. Thomas sucked in air through his teeth. James should never sound like this. He needed to make sure that James would never sound like this again.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself back up to his knees. He wiped his mouth with his forearm. There were tears streaking James’s face, escaping from the fist he had held over his eyes. 

They should be getting better. But they were worse now; worse than they had been at the beginning of last week, when Thomas had returned. It shouldn’t be this way. Something was wrong. They weren’t… they weren’t doing this the right way.

“Stay there,” he rasped out. He waited until James lowered his arm before he crawled forward – it was too much effort to move – and dropped a hand onto James’s knee. James shuddered hard, his entire body tensing.

“Need you to not move,” Thomas said, keeping his eyes on James’s face. “Let me touch you. Don’t touch me back. Not yet. Okay?”

Dark eyes red-rimmed, James dropped his hand. He nodded.

Thomas took a deep breath. This could be a bad idea; a worse one than trying to kiss James in the first place. But he had to try.

Reaching out, he put his hand on James’s shoulder. His other hand pushed down on one knee, then the other. James straightened out his legs. Then Thomas crawled over him, thighs spread, and kept moving until his hips were hovering over James’s thighs.

“You stopped when you heard me telling you to stop,” Thomas said. His hands flattened on the trunk behind James’s head, resting his weight on his arms so he didn’t end up straddling James’s hips. “Even… even like this, you’re not doing anything because I told you not to.”

“It’s,” James started. He licked his lips, and shuddered hard. “It’s taking everything I have to not move right now, Thomas.” His head dropped back, slamming against the trunk. “Please get off me. I don’t know how long I can do this.”

There was heat beneath Thomas’s hips; heat between his thighs. James was hard just from one kiss, just from this. James wanted him so badly. Thomas wanted to laugh, hysterical and long. If this was a romance novel, then it would be sweet.

But James’s fingers were tugging up the grass and clawing at the soil. Minute tremors ran through his body with every breath and it looked painful. The sight of him like this filled Thomas with a visceral, primeval horror. He swallowed down the bile that threatened to come up again.

“No,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You’re trying. Look at how hard you’re trying. If you were like him, you wouldn’t even try.”

James moved his head from side to side. “Thomas,” he gritted out. “Please.”

Sinking his knees deeper into the soil, Thomas moved a hand. He didn’t touch James; only hovered his splayed fingers over one cheek.

“What do you want?” he whispered.

“You,” James said.

“When you look at me,” Thomas stopped. He knew that he was treading on quicksand, but this was the only way to move forward. He bit the inside of his cheek, and forced himself to continue. “What do you want to do?”

Jerking his head away, James took in a ragged breath. “I don’t think you want to hear the answer,” he said.

“Tell me.” A moment’s hesitation. “Please.”

“I want to…” Another tremor wreaked through James’s body. His skin felt feverishly hot. “I want to touch you… No. I want to…” He choked.

“Please, James,” Thomas said again. “Tell me.”

“Claim.” The word burst out of James in a sudden rush. “I want to claim you. Every inch of you, inside and out. I want to fuck you and kiss you while you scream my name and breathe the sound of it into my lungs.” His eyes snapped back open, and they burnt with dark fire that crawled over Thomas’s skin. “I want to possess you so utterly that every inch of your skin belongs to me. I want to make you mine so completely that your every thought is of me, just like you have invaded my every waking moment.”

Thomas stood up. He backed away with shaking legs until his back hit a tree. He sat down. His eyes couldn’t tear away from James’s even as he drew his knees up and hugged them to his chest.

“Christ,” James said. He looked away. His chest heaved as a heavy sob wrenched out of him. “Sorry. I’m so...” Tears slipped past his squeezed-shut lids, trailing silver paths down his face that glinted in the light.

“Don’t be,” Thomas said. His heart was roaring in his ears. “I asked.”

“Not about answering,” James said. He turned to his side, curling up. “About wanting in the first place. I should know better. I should be better. I should…”

The whole weight of James’s desire, all of the desire he had never felt in his life until this moment, surrounded Thomas. Threatened to crush him. But he wasn’t going to let it. He breathed in harshly through his teeth.

“Look at me,” Thomas said. When James didn’t move, he sharpened his tone. “James, _look_ at me.”

Lifting his head, James’s glazed eyes landed somewhere on the trunk behind Thomas’s head. That was… that was okay. Better this way, actually, because Thomas didn’t know if he could take the flames of that gaze again.

“I can’t give you that. I don’t want to give you that.” He shook his head, stopping James before he could speak. “And you know that. You know, and that’s why you’re trying so hard to not give in.”

James wanted him so badly. No, he _needed_ him. _Addiction_ , he had said. Thomas hadn’t known what he meant then. He knew now. God, did he know.

With Sally, it hadn’t been a need. It had been a want. It had been a convenience. Thomas shoved the thought away because this wasn’t about him, and he wasn’t about to become selfish. Not again. 

He shifted on the grass until he could catch James’s gaze with his own. “I can’t give you any of that,” he repeated. “But if you want… if you want to claim me, I can…” He took a deep breath, and reached for his own neck. James’s eyes followed his fingers.

The T-shirt he was wearing was old, the cotton stretched and over-washed. One of the few truly comforting things he owned. He hooked two fingers over the collar, and tugged it down.

“But that’s where Martha’s chain usually goes,” James said, voice half-devoured by the air between the two of them.

Her chain, her ring. Thomas wasn’t wearing them today, but of course James would remember.

His lips crooked upwards into a lopsided smile. “Funny thing about necklaces,” he said, trying to not think about the implications of chains. “You can wear two at the same time. It can be a fashion statement.”

Slowly, James’s eyes slipped shut. His hand trembled over his hair. Thomas didn’t move.

“Leather,” he whispered finally. “Two strips of leather. I can braid them together.” He opened his eyes. His gaze flickered down to Thomas’s neck, then back up to his face. “With the chain.”

Thomas’s breath hitched in his throat. Martha’s chain and ring had been sitting on the nightstand in James’s guestroom – his room now, probably, given that he wasn’t going back to that house – and every morning, Thomas had looked at it and decided that he wouldn’t wear it. It just didn’t look right.

He tried to imagine it. Two strips of thin leather and the delicate silver chain, all braided together by James’s hands. His old wedding ring bracketed by James’s leather.

Maybe that was what they were both waiting for.

“Yeah,” he said, opening his eyes. “Yeah. That sounds… That sounds good.”

“But,” James started. He licked his lips, and shook his head. “But that’s giving me too much. I don’t... I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve…”

Pushing against the ground, Thomas stood up. He walked over to James and knelt in front of him, a few inches away. He smiled.

“You told me once to screw Bentham and Rawls and Kant and all of the others, and listen only to you,” he said softly. “I’m not going to do exactly that, but… When it comes to this, when it comes to what’s between us… let _me_ tell you what you deserve.”

Before James could reply, he reached out his hand. “I’m going to touch your chest, okay? Don’t touch me back.”

James nodded. Thomas’s hand splayed on his chest, feeling the erratic heartbeat beneath the corded muscles and strong ribs. He placed his other hand over his own heart. A part of his mind calculated the difference in width between them, and shuddered. He ignored it.

“This is about what you want to do to me,” he continued. “What I’m going to let you do to me. So let me be the one who judges what you deserve to have.”

The heartbeat beneath his hand sped up. James closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. Then again. The rhythm started to slow, and to even out.

“Okay,” James said. “Okay.” Thomas waited until he opened his eyes to smile.

“Do you want to try kissing me again?”

Another breath. James’s fingers dug into the soil again. The grass was going to be a mess but Thomas barely spared a glance at it, focused more on the tension painstakingly leaving James’s body.

“May I?” James asked.

“Yeah.” His smile widened. “You may touch me, too. But not too much, okay?”

When James leaned forward, Thomas met him halfway. Their lips touched, barely a graze. James’s hands closed around his arms, smearing dirt all over his shirt and skin. Thomas wrapped his arms around James’s neck, fingers sliding into short curls. Tugging, urging, until James moved closer. Pressure on Thomas’s lips. Slowly, they opened their mouths together. Breathed in each other’s exhales without deepening the kiss. James’s hand moved to his back, fingers trailing over Thomas’s spine. He didn’t pull him in.

There was no acid, no sour, no musk. It was sweet.

They pulled apart together. “You still taste like an ashtray,” James murmured. “Smell like one, too.”

Thomas dropped his head onto his shoulder. “That a bad thing?” he asked.

“Not really,” James replied. He wrapped both arms around him, curling around his waist, resting above his hips. There were no tremors. “I can deal with it.”

It was comfortable. They stayed like that until the sun finished rising, and then a little longer.

***

_April 22, Friday_

They went to work the next day from Burr’s place. The General called them both into his office in the morning, almost right after they came in. He didn’t ask about what happened even though Alexander expected him to – the news about Ezrine Weeks coming under investigation as being accessory to her brother’s murder of Elric Sands, and potential murder of other victims, were splashed all over the headlines this morning. Washington only told them that they’d done a good job. 

Somehow, the praise didn’t give Alexander the buzz it usually did. He refused to allow himself to think about the reason why, delving straight back into work instead. By the time he had written up his side of the report and sent it to Burr, and also done some of his preliminary reports for some of his other, much smaller cases, it was already five-thirty and Burr was standing at the doorway of his office.

Alexander looked up. He knew he looked frazzled and overworked – he hadn’t left his desk the entire day except to go to the washroom – but he tried to give Burr a smile anyway. “Hey,” he said.

His stomach chose at the moment to greet Burr as well with a loud rumble. Burr raised an eyebrow, and Alexander shrugged.

“Forgot,” he said. “Too much work to do.”

“Hah,” Burr said. “Come on, then. Sarah said she was going to make dinner today. It’ll be a celebration.”

Oh. So he was still going to go back to Burr’s place, then…? He thought last night would be his last day, because the case was over and so he didn’t really have a reason to stay anymore. Alexander opened his mouth, closed it, and made a gesture towards his laptop.

“I’m not done,” he said.

“Then save your files and finish it during the weekend,” Burr told him, voice dry. “Or leave it until Monday.” Before Alexander could protest even further, Burr pushed himself away from the doorframe. “Come on, now.”

Honestly, he should probably still resist. He should start pulling away from Burr and Sarah and Theo, because he was only there because… He didn’t know why Burr had allowed him to stay at his place since last Friday, but he figured that his time had run out now that the case was over. There was nothing tangible that held them together anymore, and they would most likely go back to how they had been before. Working on two different floors and with Burr ignoring him most of the time.

The thought hurt more than Alexander had expected, and he had expected it to hurt a great deal.

But Burr was still standing there, still waiting for him without a single hint of impatience in his eyes. Just watching Alexander while Alexander stared back at him blankly. He knew that Burr didn’t joke, but he knew now that Burr had a sense of humour, too, so…

His head was starting to run in circles. Alexander rubbed his face hard with his hands before he went to save all of his documents. The series of blinking cursors disappearing helped calm him down a little. Then he closed the lid of his laptop and shoved the whole thing into his backpack.

“What’s Sarah making?” he asked as they stood waiting for the elevator.

“Probably something she found on the Internet that’s easy to make,” Burr said. He had one hand shoved into his pocket while he used the other to carry his briefcase, and, not for the first time, Alexander noticed the sleek lines of his body and the easy grace with which he carried himself. Always, whenever those things registered in his head, he’d told himself that they only mattered to him because Burr had all of those polished manners and graces that Alexander didn’t and would never master.

Nowadays, he could admit that he kept noticing because Burr really was ridiculously attractive.

He was chewing on that thought and his own lip when the elevator _dinged_. They headed inside, and Alexander scrambled for something to say.

“Uh, so,” he tried. “Sarah usually doesn’t cook?”

“She’s not very good at it,” Burr said, which was another dead-end answer. Alexander opened his mouth, probably to ask about something else that was inane, but Burr slid an amused look over to him and shook his head. “You’re not very good at small talk, Hamilton, so you don’t have to try.”

Alexander huffed, crossing his arms even as they stepped out of the elevator together, heading out of the building for the subway. “If you’re so good at that small talk, then you try,” he challenged.

“I’d rather you not start screaming in the middle of the streets out of your frustration at the sheer inanity,” Burr said, and yeah, that _was_ genuine amusement in his eyes even though his tone was dust-dry. “Besides, haven’t you realised that talking has to go two ways?”

“Only someone who is not actually good at small talk but is pretending to be will say those things,” Alexander said, tossing his head back in as lofty a manner as he could manage while not tripping over the sidewalk. He fought down the grin that wanted to take over his mouth, offering Burr a narrow-eyed stare instead. “You really should back up all that big talk.”

“Right,” Burr said, drawing out that one word until it became four syllables. He didn’t stop giving Alexander that sidelong look even as they parted to allow a couple who couldn’t stop holding hands long enough to walk down the damned street. “So, Alexander…”

“What?” Alexander blinked. He swerved to avoid tripping over a jogger’s dog, then again to not crash into a suddenly-appearing tree, and kept his eyes on Burr.

“How’s the weather today?”

“Eh?” Alexander said eloquently. Then he cursed under his breath because yet _another_ couple decided that the space between him and Burr was the prime piece of sidewalk to walk upon.

Burr grabbed his arm. He pulled Alexander close and did something graceful and snake-like with his own arm such that Alexander’s hand was now in his elbow without Alexander needing to put in any effort whatsoever. 

“Think spring is finally here,” Burr continued, his elbow’s grip on Alexander’s hand vice-tight. “It has been raining pretty often lately, and that cleared up the air a little bit. Central Park is going to be rather pretty once the flowers start to bloom, don’t you think?”

“Are you fucking with me,” Alexander said, not even sure if that was a question or not at this point.

“Unfortunately we’ll have to wait until summer before you can get to see the ducklings in the lake,” Burr continued, completely undeterred. He steered Alexander away from a sudden incoming horde, turning around as they headed down to the subway station. “I do agree, though, that they are quite adorable.”

“Ducklings are really cute until you remember that they’re attached to ducks and they’re demons,” Alexander said. He nearly tripped when he stopped just as Burr pulled on his arm, and scrambled down the stairs. “Why the hell am I talking about _ducks_ with you?”

“Of course there are other animals in the city,” Burr said as if he hadn’t heard a single word. He managed to retrieve his metro card without letting go of Alexander’s arm, and was now standing there waiting patiently as Alexander wrestled with his own backpack to get his wallet. “But the ducks really don’t have much competition on the levels of adorableness unless you head all the way upstate.”

With a cry of triumph, Alexander managed to grab his wallet. He took his metro card out with his teeth, shoved the wallet into his pocket, and allowed Burr to drag him through the gateway. He didn’t even try to reply to the point about ducks.

Burr kept on talking about ducks all the way until Jamaica Station. Alexander had never known so much about any type of bird in his life. He was rather sure that if a duck appeared in front of him right now, he would end up strangling it and handing it over to Sarah to add as a side dish for dinner.

“So,” he said, as they waited for the bus that would take them to Richmond Hill. “Ducks. Seriously?”

“Lawyers who show any sign of possessing any kind of scientific knowledge are considered to be impressive,” Burr intoned. 

Alexander winced. “Can you… maybe… stop talking like that?” he asked, squinting his eyes at Burr. “It’s fucking creepy. You sound like a Wikipedia article being read out by a robot.”

“Is it more about the article or the robot?” Burr asked, because he would. He stepped away from Alexander to wave down the bus. 

“Both?” Alexander hazarded, scrambling up into the bus after Burr and digging into his pockets for his metro card again. “Look, it’s just an analogy that popped into my head, okay. How do you know so much about ducks?”

“Sometimes I read Wikipedia articles right before I go to sleep,” Burr told him. When Alexander gaped, he gave him a thin, wry smile. “Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Alexander protested. 

“You think obviously enough that I can practically see the gears moving,” Burr told him, shaking his head. Then he grabbed Alexander’s elbow, steadying him as the bus ran over a pothole. “How do you keep from falling over on your face every five seconds?”

“Most of the time I don’t have a distraction when I’m going home,” Alexander rolled his eyes. “Multitasking is hard when words are involved in one thing and not all else.”

Burr hummed, nodding. “Should I stop distracting you, then?”

Opening his mouth, Alexander closed it again. Looking away from Burr, he held onto one handhold with both hands, swinging back and forth with the bus’s movements. “You can tell me why you’re still inviting me back,” he said, keeping his voice low because it was peak hour and there were people around them. “The case is already over, isn’t it?”

He didn’t have to turn to hear Burr’s sigh, or feel the weight of his exasperation. “This is a terrible place to have that conversation,” he said, voice dry and just as quiet. “Can you wait until we get back home?”

Home. Alexander tipped his head back, staring at the roof of the bus. “That’s the problem,” he said. Glancing at Burr out of the corner of his eyes, he tried to give him a small smile. “If we’re going to go back to… to how we used to be, then…”

“Hold on,” Burr said. The bus’s doors were opening – they were at some kind of stop – and Burr grabbed his arm and dragged him down. They were nowhere near Richmond Hill yet – there were six stops more to go – so Alexander stared at him. But Burr didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care about Alexander’s confusion, because he was now flagging down a cab.

“Can you text Sarah and tell her that we’ll be back a little later than usual?” Burr asked once he had shoved Alexander into the cab and climbed in beside him. 

“Why are we going to be late?” Alexander blinked. He dug for his phone anyway.

“We’re going to go visiting,” Burr said, and he gave an address to the driver that had Alexander whipping his head around and staring blankly. Because he _knew_ that address. He had never really been there, of course, but he knew what it was.

He texted Sarah that they were going to pay someone important a visit. Sarah, as per her wont, seemed to understand her brother’s intentions without needing explanation, and told Alexander that Theo was very excited for their return, and they were not to come back until eight in the evening. Alexander put his phone back into his pocket, and tried to breathe.

With the downtown traffic at Queens midtown tunnel – which they had just passed on the opposite direction – the cab ride took over half an hour to reach their destination. Alexander looked out of the window, and he noticed the moment when the concrete and stone of the city broke away into a spread of rich, lush green. The driver turned left into East 2nd Street.

There weren’t really any buildings at that specific address. Just a set of high gates with _New York City Marble Cemetery_ written on it with understated gold lettering. Alexander dug for his wallet, but Burr had already paid the driver by the time he managed to reach it, so he simply stumbled out of the car.

“Let me buy you dinner next time to pay for that,” he said.

Burr glanced at him, nodding. Then he headed inside. Alexander shoved his hands into his pockets and followed him through the winding path between the tombstones, trying to not trip over anything and keeping his footsteps and breathing both as quiet as they could be.

“I didn’t know that there were still spaces here,” he said quietly. This particular cemetery was built in the nineteenth century, and most of those buried here were historic personages. Or so he thought anyway. 

“My mother’s family has a few plots left,” Burr told him. His footsteps were even, and his hand was back in his pocket. His eyes stared straight ahead. “My grandfather, grandmother, father, and mother… They were all buried here. When my uncle dies, he’ll be buried here, too. There’s even a space saved for me as well when I go, I think.”

“Which isn’t going to be any time soon,” Alexander blurted out. “Right?”

Looking at him out of the corner of his eyes again, Burr smiled. His hand wrapped around the crook of Alexander’s elbow, and he led him further into the cemetery, where the graves were sparser and less well-kept with the grass wilder and more overgrown. The private plots, most likely.

“Here,” Burr said, and stopped in front of a tombstone.

It was in the same style as those around it: small, unostentatious, with lilies-of-the-valley carved around the rounded top edges. The marble gleamed under the light of the setting sun, catching some of the orange-reds of its rays in the engraved letterings. Unlike the other graves, however, there was a bouquet of wilting white carnations and pink roses set right against it.

“Uh,” Alexander said. 

Lips twitching upwards, Burr nudged him with an elbow. “Say hi,” he urged.

Slowly, Alexander dropped his backpack to the ground. He shoved it away from him with a foot, uncaring about the grass stains on the cloth. Then he pulled away from Burr to take a couple of steps forward, falling to his knees. He reached out and brushed his fingers over the engraved name.

 _Theodosia Bartow Burr_. He rubbed his fingers over the inscription below: _Adored Wife, Beloved Mother_. Standard, almost cliché, but he knew that every word was heartfelt.

“Hey,” he whispered. He swallowed. “I know I should’ve brought flowers. I would’ve done that. I would’ve done this properly if I’d had more warning. But I was dragged here just half an hour ago, and I wasn’t sure until I saw you that we’re here to visit you.”

“She won’t mind,” Burr said. He dropped his briefcase next to Alexander’s backpack, and sat down on the grass, leaning against the tombstone. He moved like he had done this a thousand times before, which Alexander didn’t doubt. “She has never been much for formality.”

“This is the most I’ve ever heard of you,” Alexander informed the tombstone. Helplessly, his lips quirked into a smile. “I didn’t even know you existed until I met your daughter. She’s great, by the way. She’s absolutely wonderful.”

“Theo likes Alexander,” Burr said, picking up the thread of the conversation as easily as he had in that small room with Ezrine Weeks. “Do you remember the _Alice in Wonderland_ book that is now her favourite? Alexander bought that for her.”

“I didn’t buy it so it’ll be her favourite,” Alexander said, speaking to both Burr and his dead wife. “I just…” He faltered. 

He had never been good at this. At speaking to the dead. Once the dead were dead, they were gone, and he had to move on. He had to keep on living because if they remained in his memory, then they were still alive, somehow. That was what he told himself when his mother died, when his cousin died…

But he could barely remember them anymore. The warmth of his mother’s fingers on his cheek. Peter’s laugh and the weight of his arms on Alexander’s once-smaller shoulders. That was all he remembered. His eyes closed and his breath escaped him in a heavy, ragged shudder, and he pushed the memories away.

Now wasn’t the time.

“Why did you bring me here?” 

“Theodosia has heard me talk about you plenty of times,” Burr said. His voice was soft, too, with a strange note of wistfulness that Alexander didn’t want to explore. “I figured that it was long past time for her to meet you.”

Swallowing hard, Alexander shook his head. “But why now?” he asked. “Why tonight?”

“When else?” Burr said. When Alexander opened his eyes to look at him, he laughed, turning away to brush his fingers over Theodosia’s name on her tombstone. His other hand was clenched into a fist by his lap.

“You assumed that I would ask you to leave,” Burr said finally. “I assumed that you wanted to, as well. But…” He shrugged.

“I don’t want to leave,” Alexander said, making solid his desires.

“Yeah,” Burr said. He ducked his head, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “I don’t want you to leave either.”

Oh.

Alexander had been sleeping on the floor of Burr’s bedroom. But the bedroom didn’t only belong to Burr, did it? It had belonged to Theodosia, too, when she had been alive. The space he now half-inhabited, the space that Burr had opened to him that day when he invited him – _invited_ him instead of Alexander practically forcing his way through the door – had belonged to Theodosia. It might have been left vacant, but it was hers, all the same.

So was the man in front of him. Maybe not in the same way, but similar, nonetheless.

Dragging his hand through his hair, Alexander pulled out his hair tie. He let the strands fall over his face, dropping the piece of cloth and elastic onto the grass. “I don’t want to trespass,” he said quietly. “If you don’t want me here, then I’ll go.”

“Told you I don’t want you to leave,” Burr said, and there was a now-familiar thread of exasperation in his voice. He ran a hand over the top of his head, and sighed. Alexander looked at him, waiting, but Burr didn’t say anything else. Silence stretched, the air practically trembling in the taut tension between them.

Then Alexander blurted the question that had been lingering in his head since Monday, “Why did you help me?”

Burr looked at him, then down to his hands. “It wasn’t helping you,” he said, voice still quiet. He shook his head. “I just… a man like Weeks doesn’t deserve anything less than life imprisonment for what he’s done.”

There was a story there, Alexander knew. He didn’t need to see Burr’s eyes to know: it was obvious enough last Friday when Burr had collapsed in front of him, all of his vaunted control gone, the very moment he heard Weeks’s filthy words. It was in the tremors wreaking his body in court yesterday. It was hidden in his soft whisper: _There have been a couple of bastards in my life_.

Alexander didn’t need to ask to know. 

“You could’ve given the recording to Jefferson,” he said instead. “You could’ve given the recording to Franklin yourself. But you let me do it. You even convinced Madison to let me do it. Why?”

He didn’t need to know this either. He needed to hear Burr say it.

“What do you want me to say?” Burr asked. He turned away from Alexander to look at the tombstone. 

Reaching out, Alexander caught his hand. He tangled their fingers together, but didn’t squeeze. “You brought me here,” he pointed out softly. “Why did you really bring me here?”

Burr didn’t pull away. His eyes were fixed on their linked hands, as if he couldn’t believe such a thing was happening. Alexander kept his grip loose; the last thing he needed right now was to make Burr think that he was trying to trap him.

“She never knew,” Burr said finally. “She never… She suspected, a few things, but she never asked. I loved her for not asking. I loved her for not having to ask to know what to do.”

“You know I can’t do the same,” Alexander said softly.

“No,” Burr shook his head. He took a deep breath and leaned even heavier against the tombstone. His fingers curled, very slightly, around Alexander’s. “But I think… that’s a good thing too. Maybe I’ve needed to talk about it for far too long.”

And Burr only wanted to say this once. And Burr, though he didn’t speak about her and most likely didn’t allow himself to think much about her, still wanted her to know, even though most would think it was already too late. Or, maybe, he wanted some kind of silent moral support while he told Alexander. It didn’t matter, either way.

“I want to know,” he said quietly. “But only when you want to tell me. Only when you’re ready.”

“When did you learn patience?” Burr asked, cracking an eye open, a small, wry smile curving up the edges of his mouth.

“Probably at the same time that you decided that talking might be a good idea,” Alexander said, offering Burr a lopsided smile.

“There’s that, yeah,” Burr said.

He fell silent again. Alexander didn’t push. He only shifted until he was no longer kneeling but sitting on the grass – no matter how much practice he received, kneeling was still far too uncomfortable to do for a long period of time, and he didn’t need aches as distractions. He kept his eyes on Burr’s face.

“My parents died when I was two,” Burr said finally, eyes closed. “Sarah was four. My parents wanted us to go to our grandparents’ at their deaths, but… they died in the same accident. A plane crash.” He shrugged.

Alexander waited. He didn’t move.

“We went to our uncle in the end,” Burr continued. “My mother’s youngest brother. Mr Timothy Edwards.” His lips curved up into a smile that Alexander now recognised; one that had no humour or happiness in it at all, merely a movement of the mouth. “He wasn’t… kind. He had his moods.”

Those weren’t the same ‘moods’ that Peter suffered from, Alexander knew without having to ask. Peter would get sad without reason; would mope and drag his feet around. Alexander, at thirteen, had tried to cheer him up with books, because books made him happy and so they should make Peter happy, too. 

It didn’t work. It took him more than a decade to realise that nothing would have worked. He squeezed Burr’s hand very lightly.

“Mr Edwards used to hit us,” Burr said. His eyes were still closed but that detestable smile had faded away. “It would always be for different reasons. Sarah and I… we taught each other how to hide.”

They had the same smile.

“We got a home-schooling tutor when Sarah was fourteen and I was twelve,” Burr said, his voice even softer. “Tapping Reeve. We never went to middle or high school; he taught us everything. Sarah went to college when she was seventeen. I went a year later. Sarah went as far as she could while still keeping the Burr pride. I had to go to Columbia. But we… we both had to leave Mr Edwards’s house. We both managed to leave.”

This wasn’t a story; this was the outline of one. But Alexander knew he was receiving more from Burr than anyone else ever had. If Theodosia was here, this would be the first time she was hearing the story from Burr’s mouth, too, he was sure. And maybe she would know how to deal with it better, but she couldn’t make her presence truly felt, so Alexander’s fingers around Burr’s would have to do.

“After Sarah graduated from college, she had to go back. She didn’t want to go back, so she… she got married.” Burr’s hand trembled. Alexander tightened his grip until it stopped. “She married Reeve. Mr Edwards was just glad to be rid of her, I think. He didn’t even bother turning up at her wedding.”

More pieces fell into place. A man who had met her at fourteen, and who had ended up marrying her. Sarah’s blank, hollow stare at Alexander’s fingers around her arm.

“Reeve got what he deserved,” Burr whispered. “Too late for the damage to be reversed, but…” He stopped. Alexander made a soft, inarticulate sound, trying to soothe. Burr tilted his head, pressing his forehead against the marble of Theodosia’s headstone. He squeezed Alexander’s hand.

“Maybe it’s because of our bad luck, or we just manage to attract people like that,” Burr said, voice even softer now. “But there was this man, in college. I’m pretty sure you’ve heard of him.”

“Yeah,” Alexander said. He had been thinking about this since last Friday, crafting a list in his head. “William Paterson, right?”

Burr nodded. His breath tripped in his throat.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Alexander told him again. “You don’t have to force yourself.”

Tipping his head back, Burr opened his eyes. He stared up to the darkening skies without speaking for long moments. “Okay,” he said finally. “I want to tell you, but I think if I do…” Slowly, he shook his head. “Not yet.”

Perhaps he would never say it. Perhaps things like these were too difficult to put into words. It didn’t matter. Alexander lived and breathed words, but he didn’t need any right now: the answers were written in the broken-prismatic colours of Burr’s eyes, and sketched in the dark, slashing shadows beneath them.

He nodded. “Okay.”

They sat there in silence for a long time. Alexander watched Burr, trying to make sure that his gaze wasn’t too heavy. But he failed anyway, because Burr blinked, tucking his chin into his chest as he met Alexander’s eyes.

“What is it?” 

At least he sounded amused. Alexander shook his head, blowing his hair out of his face.

“Was it weird?” he asked. “When you realised that you… you liked dealing pain to people who like to receive it. Was it weird?”

For some reason, Burr’s shoulders shook. He squeezed Alexander’s fingers before bringing their joined hands up, brushing his knuckles over the curve of Alexander’s cheek.

“Not really,” Burr said, voice quiet. “It had always been different. Like you said, those I hurt wanted to be hurt. They knew what they were getting into, and…” He shrugged. “It was physical. The physical was always easy to deal with.”

Wounds that festered fastest and took the longest to heal were always on the inside. Alexander lowered his eyes, chewing on his lip. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that to you the last time.”

“You said a lot of things to me at many different times,” Burr said, sounding amused. “You’ll have to specify.”

“Well, from my itemised list,” Alexander started. When Burr laughed, he grinned – he honestly _didn’t_ have an itemised list, but he remembered a lot of things, so it wasn’t that much of an exaggeration.

“Anyway, I was talking about what I said after I gave the opening argument,” he clarified. When he had accused Burr of trying to shut him up with force whenever he disagreed with him.

“No, you were right,” Burr shook his head. He pushed himself up slightly with the hand not in Alexander’s, leaning against Theodosia’s gravestone even more. “I wasn’t being fair to you. I was treating you like you said.”

His lips curved up into a wry, self-deprecating smile. “You keep breaking through the neat walls I put around everything,” he said. “But that doesn’t excuse any of what I did.”

Shrugging, Alexander shoved his thumb into his pocket, hunching his shoulders. “That’s not… That’s not really important,” he said. “I mean, you have your reasons for it, and I pretty much asked for it anyway.”

For reasons he couldn’t discern, Burr’s eyes narrowed. His free hand shot out suddenly, twisting Alexander’s collar. The cloth pressed hard into his throat, cutting off his air, and Alexander’s eyes widened as he choked.

“Is it unimportant?” Burr said. All of his vulnerability in his voice had vanished without a trace, replaced with a silkiness that hid a sharp blade of danger. “Are you sure you want to say that?”

Eyes widening, Alexander tried to turn towards the tombstone.

“She knows my proclivities,” Burr said, drawing out the last word. “She knows what I like to do to people. Sometimes she liked to watch. This isn’t very different, is it? Answer my question.”

Alexander tried to shake his head. He couldn’t breathe. Grey was encroaching into the edges of his vision.

Just as abruptly as he had grabbed him, Burr let him go. Alexander bent over, elbows slamming into the grass. He gasped for air, chest heaving.

Burr’s hand dropped into his hair. He stroked through the strands, thumb following the curve of Alexander’s ear. The touch was light, rhythmic.

“Despite everything, you still think this way,” Burr said. There was something hidden beneath that thoughtful tone, something that made Alexander’s instincts scream for him to get away. But it was too comfortable right now like this.

His eyes closed.

“There’s something I’d like you to do for me, Hamilton,” Burr said.

Blinking, Alexander tried to lift his head. His vision was still woozy, so he squinted. “Eh?”

“Do you remember that you asked me for something that you shouldn’t have?” Burr asked. “The information you used for blackmail?”

“Yeah,” Alexander said. His throat went dry.

“You had the perfect right to choose your reward, of course, but I rather enjoyed those sessions,” Burr said. The vulnerability was still absent, but the danger was gone, too. There was only thoughtfulness in that quiet voice, and the weight of those dark eyes on Alexander. “So I want something from you, if you’d like to give it to me.”

Contemplation, and a very strange politeness. Alexander swallowed hard. “What is it?”

“Three hours of your obedience,” Burr told him. His hand slipped down to cup Alexander’s neck, tugging lightly to help him sit up again. “Your complete obedience, in which you do everything I say.”

Alexander’s breath caught. He knew it was ridiculous for Burr to ask him for this when he just choked him for what seemed to be no reason whatsoever. He should say no. That was what his instincts were telling him to do.

Still, he knew by those same instincts that Burr was trying to show him something. He’d brought Alexander here and stripped himself bare for him to see, to understand. Alexander would offer to do the same but he had given Burr that long ago; had peeled off not only his clothes but his skin and flesh to expose his bones. And Burr had taken all of that into his hands far better than anyone else who had tried. 

_You have me_ , Burr said. There was still the ghostly imprint of his knuckles on Alexander’s throat. If Alexander concentrated, he could still feel the force of Burr’s body as he threw him against the wall or down to the floor or to any flat surface available. But none of those were nearly as strong as the echoes of Burr’s voice in his ear.

“Yeah,” he said, meeting those dark eyes squarely. “Yeah, okay.” 

Maybe Alexander didn’t need someone who could carve their names into his bones like he had always wanted. Maybe he needed someone who could put his skin and flesh back onto his bones, and stitch them all up again with careful hands.

Three hours. He licked his lips. He nodded.

“Good,” Burr said. His hand slipped from Alexander’s, and he looked at Theodosia’s tombstone again, a wry smile curving his lips.

“That’s how it is, Theodosia,” he murmured. “Sorry I didn’t follow your advice.”

Alexander turned away. He swallowed hard. This was a conversation he wasn’t a part of, not really. He shoved his hands into his pockets as Burr leaned even closer to the stone, murmuring. He stared at the grass and told himself to not eavesdrop. 

When he heard the rustle of shifting feet, he looked up. Burr was standing, with a hand held up towards him. “Let’s go home,” he said.

 _Home_. Alexander let out a shuddering breath. He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He placed his hand on top of the headstone.

“I’ll bring you flowers next time,” he promised Theodosia. “And maybe I can get him to tell me more about you, too, so I can be better at taking care of him.”

Burr raised an eyebrow. Alexander shrugged, ignoring him, and picked up his backpack. He handed Burr’s briefcase back to him. They headed out of the graveyard. Alexander didn’t turn back, but he reckoned he could smell the sweet scent of carnation and roses in the air.

He didn’t believe in ghosts and he wasn’t good with the dead, but maybe that could mean that Theodosia approved. Or that she wasn’t horribly opposed. Hopefully, anyway. Alexander didn’t know how to deal with it if she _was_ opposed. It would be rude to call an exorcist.

That line of thought was too ludicrous to stay in for long, so Alexander scrambled for something else. He didn’t find anything until they were both standing at the curb while waiting for the Uber that he had called. 

“Hey,” he said, turning to Burr. “You know… that monster,” he refused to say Weeks’s name, both for his own sake and Burr’s, “pegged Jefferson in like, five seconds, yeah?”

Burr blinked at him. It had to be some sort of testament as to how much time they had been spending together that he only nodded instead of asking Alexander what he was on by now.

“How come he didn’t see me that way?”

“Why are you thinking about this?” Burr frowned.

“I was looking for things to think about,” Alexander shrugged. “Also, I wrote up the report today, so…”

“If you wrote the report,” Burr said dryly, “then you should’ve figured it out. Don’t you remember what you did to him the first time you met?”

Alexander cocked his head. He’d talked to Weeks; he’d tried to comfort him… Oh. He grimaced, “C’mon, surely not.” Weeks couldn’t have thought him to be a _Dom_.

“Who knows how a monster’s mind works?” Burr asked rhetorically. He fetched Alexander a raised eyebrow. “Do you _want_ him to treat you like how he treated Jefferson?”

“No,” Alexander said. He could still feel the creeps from those words, and he shuddered. “You know what, I’m sorry for bringing it up. Let’s never talk about it again.”

“You brought it up,” Burr pointed out.

“That’s literally what I just said.”

“Some things have to be repeated,” Burr shot back, a weirdly prim note in his voice.

Squinting at him, Alexander jerked his backpack higher up his shoulders. He huffed, and looked down the road, waving an arm when he saw the driver he’d called approaching. “I’m ignoring you,” he informed Burr.

“If you tell me that you’re ignoring me, you’re not really ignoring me,” Burr said.

“Can you like,” Alexander yanked open the backseat door, “go back to talking about ducks or something?”

Burr slid into the seat next to him with his usual grace. He looked at Alexander coolly. “Maybe I’d like to talk about geese this time,” he said.

Opening his mouth, Alexander closed it again. “I’m only going back home to your house because I like your daughter,” Alexander informed him solemnly. “I don’t like you.”

Burr threw his head back and laughed. It had none of the usual harshness that Alexander was used to hearing in it. Just a smooth rumble with a hint of a giggle in it, and Burr was bending half over to try to stifle it.

Alexander punched him in the arm. Burr caught his wrist. They looked at each other before Alexander laughed as well, shaking his head. Their hands tangled together.

The driver was staring at them from the rearview mirror. Alexander ignored him. It didn’t matter that they didn’t make sense to anyone else. They made sense to each other. That was enough. That was more than what either of them had for a long time.

They went home. Sarah had made beef casserole. It was a little burnt at the sides, but it was still the best thing Alexander had ever tasted anyway.

Theo wanted him to read her _Alice_. Burr helped to do the Caterpillar’s voice. He ran out of clothes to sleep in, so he borrowed Burr’s even though pyjamas weren’t much his usual style. The flannel was warm.

Burr didn’t ask him to come up to the bed. Alexander didn’t ask. He had learned to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you miss Sally? I miss Sally a fucking lot. I need my breath of fresh air amidst the Problematic Assholes. She’s coming back next chapter.
> 
> Said Problematic Assholes are finally making progress, by the way. Everyone together with me: _fucking finally_.


	27. the world was wide enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgiveness. (Can you imagine?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: more complexities and twisted screwiness of working-class mentalities, discussion of rape. Second scene: brief mention of prior suicide attempt, depiction of BDSM being used as therapy, sadomasochism and the use of violence. Third scene: discussion of abuse.

_April 30, Saturday_

New York rushing by the windows and Angelica’s hand resting on top of hers: Sally closed her eyes, focusing on the warmth and the solidity, shutting out the world even as she found herself being grounded to it.

“Nervous?” Angelica asked.

“Kind of,” Sally said. She didn’t open her eyes. “Just seems too good to be true, honestly.”

In the backseat behind them, Jimmy snorted. “You can say that again,” he drawled. “Doesn’t seem very logical for the bastard to change his mind all a sudden. And I know better than to think that my visit had anything to do with this.”

Despite herself, Sally winced. Jimmy had told her, two weeks ago, about what had happened, and she had been waiting all this time for the other shoe to drop. For Jefferson to do something terrible to her brother in retaliation for his audacity in confronting him. When it didn’t come, when Angelica told her and showed her the contract that Jefferson had drafted instead…

Jimmy was right: it just didn’t make sense. But the irrationality of the situation was only part of the problem. It galled her, deep inside, that Jefferson was offering this, and she knew that taking the money would solve all of her problems. She didn’t think that anything she actually said was the catalyst to him changing his mind – he had never listened to her, had never really looked at her as _Sally_ instead of _Martha_ – and so…

She sighed. “He still has all of the cards, doesn’t he?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Even after everything, he’s still the one with all of the cards.”

Angelica squeezed her hand. “Maybe,” she said quietly. “But is that a good enough reason to refuse?”

There was a chain with rusting iron links that connected to two of them, and the hook was set deep inside Sally’s heart, threatening to poison her blood. Those links were carved out of every cent of the Wayles inheritance. If she took the money…

“It’d be a damned fool thing to refuse just because of pride,” Jimmy grunted. “But hell if I don’t want to just refuse it anyway.”

“You can do that, if you want,” Angelica said softly. “You have other plans, right? For Sally’s schooling, and also possibly everything else you need?”

“Those plans will plunge us deep into debt,” Sally murmured. She opened her eyes and watched as the theatres of Broadway, billboards bright even in the early afternoon light, skittered past her sight. “Funny thing, isn’t it? It still comes down between holding on to my pride and choosing the sensible option. Nothing’s really changed.”

“Everything has changed,” Angelica refuted. She squeezed Sally’s hand, thumb running over her knuckles. “You showed him how things really were, refused him his blinders. He stopped calling you. And now he’s offering the money to you.”

“But it’s still all up to him,” Sally said. “It’s all still about him.”

Confused silence. Angelica didn’t understand. 

“Thing is,” Jimmy spoke up. “Rich people are all bastards, present company maybe excepted.” Angelica huffed a quiet laugh. “You all have the money. And with the money, you’ve got the power. Everything is your decision and what you choose to do, and we just end up as… eh.” A sigh. “Pawns. Puppets. Pretty much.”

“Mm,” Angelica said. “But is this about Jefferson, or what’s happening with the whole Weeks thing?”

Instinctively, Sally reached backwards, her hand wedging between the headrest and the window. Jimmy’s fingers brushed hers, tangling together and squeezing.

“I’m fine, girlie,” Jimmy said. “I got rid of him long ago, yeah? I’m fine. My job might not exist for much longer, because the company’s probably going to change hands real soon, but I’m still okay right now.”

When the news had first broken out about the conclusion of the Weeks case, the first person Sally had called had been Jimmy. She’d read through the article, fingers trembling over words like ‘ _psychopath_ ’ and ‘ _possible serial rapist_ ’ and _‘under investigation for multiple murders_ ’, and she had remembered Jimmy telling her the story. Weeks had been interested in Jimmy, had wanted him, and if Jimmy hadn’t been so careful and clever and cruel…

It would have been him on the morgue table, not Elric Sands. And Sally knew she was unfair and unkind, for surely Sands’s family mourned him, but she was so glad that it was someone else’s brother who had died, not hers.

“Both, I guess,” Jimmy was saying, sounding a little frustrated. “Comes down to pretty much the same thing, doesn’t it? Rich bastards making selfish decisions, and everyone else being affected by them.”

“There’s a difference, though,” Angelica said softly. “Jefferson’s affected also; I’ve seen it myself. I can’t say the same for Weeks.”

“Yeah, but that just runs back to the same point,” Jimmy argued. “It’s up to the rich bastard to be good or bad. Even you being here ain’t just ‘cause of Sally, but also ‘cause you have the ability to look at Sally beyond her circumstances. Problem’s still the same: we ain’t got the ability to change your mind if you don’t want it changed, so it’s all still up to you.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say,” Angelica laughed shakily

“But it’s true,” Sally said, voice still quiet. She opened her eyes – they were at a traffic light, and the streets looked familiar. “You have to see that it’s true, Angelica. Whatever happened that made Jefferson change his mind… It’s not because of me.” Her shoulders shook.

“Would it be better if you knew that it was because of you?” Angelica asked.

“Maybe?” Sally shrugged. “But it still comes down to his choice, his decision. I’m still… We’re still dependent, Angelica. Whatever decision we make is based on his choice. Whatever happens is because he acts, and all I can do in response is to react to it. It’s still all the same.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Jimmy sighed, loud and explosive.

“Are you thinking that we’re overthinking this?” he drawled. “Maybe that we should be thankful that this is happening, shut up and stop questioning?”

“No,” Angelica said, her words whip-sharp. “Don’t assume what I’m thinking, Jimmy.” A deliberate pause. “Please.”

Jimmy chuckled darkly. “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’ll shut up.”

As Sally watched, Angelica dropped her head back against her seat’s headrest, eyes heavy-lidded even as she kept them on the road.

“I can tell you that this is not just a problem that’s limited to the two of you, but one that is of systematic inequality and how a vast majority are left helpless to a very small minority,” Angelica mused. “I can even give you an entire essay about the unfairness of power being tied to the distribution of wealth. But I don’t think either of those will be particularly helpful.”

Snorting, Jimmy said dryly, “When I went to university, I went to learn actually useful things instead of ridiculously complicated theories that have no real use in reality.”

“Case in point,” Angelica said, just as deadpan. “To be quite honest, there’s nothing I can say. Nothing I can do, even.” She laughed, mirthless and just a little dark. “But there _is_ one thing.”

“What is it?” Sally asked, sliding her eyes to her.

“You can argue that I admitted that you’re both right because of a choice I made,” Angelica said. “Because of something inherent in my makeup that means that I’m less of a complete bastard than the rest of my socioeconomic class. But that doesn’t mean that nothing either of you did contributed to my decision.”

Through the rearview mirror, Sally watched as Jimmy cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “You’ve lost me,” he said.

“Part of the reason why I can admit that I’m wrong is because I’m willing to listen,” Angelica said softly. “But my willingness to listen means absolutely zilch unless there’s someone who is willing to speak. That’s your effort.” She squeezed Sally’s hand. “Maybe that effort isn’t entirely the reason, but you don’t need to be entirely responsible for something to be credited and awarded.”

Making an impatient sound, Jimmy leaned forward, head poking into the space between the driver’s and passenger seats. “What are you trying to say?”

“This decision that Jefferson is making is undoubtedly _his_ decision,” Angelica started.

“But he wouldn’t have made it if not for me yelling in his face,” Sally finished for her. She sat up straighter, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. “And because of that, I’m not really that helpless.”

“It takes a hell of a lot of effort and courage to speak up, love,” Angelica murmured, tangling her hand with Sally’s again and kissing the wrist without taking her eyes off of the road. “That kind of labour has an impact. And it deserves acknowledgment and compensation.”

“Are you trying to say that Sally earned nearly two hundred million dollars just for yelling at that bastard?” Jimmy’s words were slurred and broken by his laughter.

“You yelled at Jefferson too,” Angelica pointed out, implacable. Then she sighed, and shook her head. “But that’s not what I’m saying. That money he’s giving to you both is what you _deserved_. Your efforts – the words you gave and everything you endured – played a part in forcing him to acknowledge that you do deserve that money. Which means that it’s not charity. Not in any way. You earned it and deserve it fair and square.”

Neither Jimmy nor Sally had ever used ‘charity’ to describe what Jefferson was doing. But the word had been running through their heads, nonetheless.

Jimmy was gaping. “How did you know that?”

“She learns fast,” Sally murmured. “I yelled at her before, too.”

“And I wouldn’t have learned if not for you yelling at me,” Angelica told her quietly, squeezing her hand again. “That’s what I mean about your effort playing a part. That’s your power.”

There were still arguments Sally could make. She could say that nothing she could have said or done would have mattered if Angelica wasn’t willing to listen and look. She could say that whatever power that gave her was still too little, and power had never been a comfort anyway.

But she wanted to believe Angelica. She wanted to accept this money that Jefferson was offering, because then she wouldn’t need to worry about her school fees. She could even help Pete with the problems he was having with his disinterest in the line of work he was pursuing a degree in. There was so much she could do with the money, and though her pride was bitter to swallow, she knew she would swallow it still.

“Okay,” she said.

Opening his mouth, Jimmy looked set to argue even more. Sally caught his eyes in the mirror and shook her head, and he clicked it back shut.

“Anyway, we’re here,” Angelica said.

She lived in an apartment in a townhouse in midtown Manhattan, not directly adjacent to Central Park or Times Square but close enough for the short distance to not matter. Sally craned her neck, looking out of the windows as Angelica pulled into one of the parking lots along the streets. 

Neither Jefferson’s usual silver Jaguar nor his red Porsche was anywhere to be seen. The black Maserati he reserved for fundraisers and other official events wasn’t there either.

“He’s late,” she said.

“No, he’s here,” Angelica said. She slid the car into a lot with her usual grace and ease, and then reached over Sally to unlock the passenger side door. She didn’t have to – she could have just done it from the driver’s seat – but the brush of her arm was comforting. “Look behind you, a little further down the street.”

As Sally stepped out of the car, she turned. 

He was dressed in a way she had never seen of him: a light blue cashmere sweater, a little too large for him with the colour faded from too many washings, baggy black jeans held up by a belt, and a plain brown messenger bag. His hair was loose around his face, and he was leaning against a lamppost with a cigarette in his hand. He had obviously seen them, but stayed where he was until Angelica crooked her fingers.

Away from the pomp and glamour of fundraising balls, the stifling vastness of his house, or even the oppressive authority of his office, he looked small. He didn’t walk like a wolf hunting his prey anymore. His dark eyes looked the same and yet his gaze seemed to have lost all of its threat. He tossed his cigarette into a nearby drain and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Hey,” he greeted them.

“Where’s your car?” Sally couldn’t help but blurt out.

Jefferson blinked. He tipped his head down, but his eyes skittered past her to stare an inch to the left of her face. “Didn’t bring it,” he said. “A friend drove me here.” 

_Subdued_ , Sally realised. He looked subdued. As if someone had reached into the core of him and twisted it, turned it askew so that his power couldn’t go on full blast anymore. It was…strange, she decided. The only word she could use to describe him right now was _strange_.

“C’mon,” Angelica said. She pushed open the gate of the townhouse and trotted up to the door, opening in. “Time’s a-wasting.”

When Jefferson didn’t move, Sally turned away and followed Angelica. She reached out and took the older woman’s hand, tangling their fingers together. Jimmy stepped close and took her other hand.

They headed up the stairs to Angelica’s upper-floor apartment like that: Angelica leading the way, and sandwiching Sally between her and Jimmy. Jefferson followed a few steps behind the three of them, his quiet footsteps the only sound of his continued presence.

“Thanks,” he said abruptly as Angelica led them into her apartment. “For offering your place.”

“Least I can do,” Angelica waved a hand. Then her eyes scanned over all three of them. “Anything I can get you? Drinks?”

“Well, what you can do is to get him to actually acknowledge us,” Jimmy said, voice too loud for the one-person apartment.

Even though Jimmy wasn’t looking at him, or maybe because of that, Jefferson hunched in even further, shoulders almost reaching to his ears. “Mr Hemings,” he murmured, looking at Jimmy. Then his eyes moved down and sideways. Sally tipped her head back, but she wasn’t the one to flinch when their eyes met. “Ms Hemings.”

Not just subdued, Sally realised. Afraid. He was afraid of Jimmy, and of her. Especially of her.

The world had turned upside-down. Sally wanted to crow, to yell in triumph – if Jefferson feared her, then didn’t it mean that she held the cards, now? Wasn’t that what she always wanted?

Yet all she could feel was her skin crawling.

“I’ m going to get all of you drinks,” Angelica said. “Go ahead, settle down.”

Sally looked away. She headed to the couch and sat down. Jimmy flopped down next to her. His eyes were still narrowed and fixed upon Jefferson, who still hadn’t moved. Then Jefferson stepped forward. He reached into the messenger bag and drew out a heavy folder, sliding it onto the coffee table in front of them.

“The amended contract,” he said, voice barely a murmur. Then he turned away, presumably to find another chair.

Picking up the folder, Sally slipped the document out into her hands. Angelica once told her that paper had different weighs and textures, and she could feel it now: this paper was thick and heavy, with a glossy feel. The printed words looked almost embossed. It looked terribly official, and terribly expensive. Jimmy, poking at the edge of it, looked dubious.

“Lawyer paper,” Jefferson said suddenly. He was carrying one of the chairs from the kitchen with one hand and balancing a tray with two glasses with the other. “So called because it costs a lot of money but is ultimately not very useful, because it’s not the paper that legal documents are stipulated to be printed on.”

When Sally blinked up at him, he shrugged. “Only thing that the office printer would accept,” he said, and sat the drinks down in front of them.

She picked up her glass, sipping it by reflex even as her mind continued screaming incoherently. It was iced green tea, sweetened with honey. Something Angelica always gave her.

“Are you trying to butter us up so we’ll tell you that you don’t need to give us that much money?” Jimmy demanded. He hadn’t touched the other glass.

Slowly, Jefferson put down the chair. He sank down on it, elbows on his knees. His shoulders were still hunched and far too stiff.

“Not at all,” he said softly. “I’m not trying to cheat you out of anything.” When Jimmy didn’t look convinced, Jefferson gestured with his hand towards the sheaf of papers still on Sally’s lap. “Please, look through all of it.”

Lifting the papers again, she realised that there were actually five stapled stacks. She handed one blankly to Jimmy, and then started reading through the next. It wasn’t very long once she skimmed through all of the legalese to pick up the most pertinent information, and she turned went on to the next stack. She handed Jimmy the fourth when he was done with his. 

By the time they had finished reading all five stacks, Angelica had returned. She was cradling a hot cup of what smelled like Earl Grey in her hands, curled up on the big armchair adjacent to the couch. Her eyes were fixed upon the two of them.

“I don’t understand,” Sally said.

“Different variations, depending on what you want,” Jefferson said. He was staring down at his hands, curling and uncurling them sporadically. “Option one: one hundred ninety-four million and seven hundred thousand in liquid assets, to be paid in instalments over the period of twenty-four months. Option two: forty-four million, four hundred and seven hundred thousand in liquid assets, a further fifty million in the same – to make up for the fifty million in investments and bonds that were lost in ’08 – and the other hundred million in controlling shares for the Fairfax Forest Industries. Option three—”

“We can read,” Jimmy interrupted. “That’s not what she’s asking.”

Jefferson lifted his head up. He stared into the air an inch from Sally’s face.

“Why are you doing this?” Sally asked. She shoved all of the papers off her lap onto the table, scooting forward until she could catch Jefferson’s gaze and hold it. “Why are you giving this to us?”

“It’s not giving,” Jefferson shook his head. “It’s returning to you what was unfairly taken.”

“Bullshit,” Jimmy snorted. When Jefferson blinked, he waved a hand. “Look, you know Wayles as your father-in-law, and I’m sure he’s a good enough guy to you, yeah? But look, I knew the bastard much more than you ever would, and I can say for sure he’s a bastard. He wouldn’t have given any of this money to us. He only sees himself as having one kid, and that’s Martha,” he spat out her name. Jefferson flinched, but said nothing.

“Money’s his to give,” Jimmy continued. “You took nothing. It was legal.”

“Doesn’t mean it was the right thing,” Jefferson said. He looked away, staring at the wall. His hand trembled as he drew it through his hair. “What’d be right is for you to have the money that your father should’ve given you. That’s… that’s what I’m trying to do.”

“But _why_?” Sally insisted, refusing to let him get away from answering the question. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t very long ago that you were accusing me of raping you.”

“Wait, what?” Jimmy burst out. Sally reached out and grabbed his wrist, gripping tight to forestall any further questions. She kept her eyes on Jefferson.

“I was wrong about that,” Jefferson whispered. He still refused to look at her. “I was wrong about a lot of things.”

“Is this an apology?” she demanded. Where did all of this courage, all of this _anger_ , come from? “Or is it an attempt to keep us quiet? If it is, then take all of it back, because I refuse to… I refuse…” She faltered.

“That’s not why,” Jefferson said. He drew both hands through his hair. “I don’t think… This isn’t my way of trying to buy your silence. If you still want to go to the press after this, it’s your prerogative, and I won’t rescind my offer. This is…”

He turned to look at Angelica, who was still silently drinking her tea. There was something terrifyingly helpless in his eyes. She shook her head, and he took a ragged breath, pressing both palms against his eyes.

“This is what you deserved to have from the beginning,” Jefferson said, his voice a near-inaudible wreck. “I should’ve known ten years ago where the money should’ve gone and who… who needed it more. I didn’t see. And then I… I took advantage of the desperation I plunged you all into myself, and I… I accused you of something terrible when all you were acting out of desperation.” His shoulders shook.

“None of that’s fair. None of that’s right. I’m trying to make it right.”

Guilt, now. There was guilt writ over every inch of him, the ink stark in the afternoon light pouring into Angelica’s large windows. Sally’s hands tangled in her skirt.

“You had no problems doing what wasn’t right because it was convenient for you,” Sally told him, voice soft. “Why, Mr Jefferson? Why the sudden change of heart?”

When he flinched, she wasn’t sure if it was because of what she said or the title she used. Likely both.

Hands dropping back down his lap, Jefferson’s shoulders trembled again. He pressed a fist against his forehead. He didn’t speak.

“Tell them,” Angelica said; the first words she’d spoken ever since she went to the kitchen for drinks. “Don’t start acting out of your convenience again when you were doing so well.”

Slowly, Jefferson nodded. “I know…” He paused, licking his lips .He didn’t open his eyes. “You called me a rapist, a hypocrite. I know both are true. I know because I… I’ve experienced what it’s like to be on the other side.” 

_Oh_. Sally’s breath caught in her throat. She exchanged a wide-eyed stare with Jimmy.

“But it wasn’t the same,” Jefferson continued. “What I did to you was worse. That’s why…”

“Is this your way of making up for it?” Sally asked quietly.

Arm dropping back down to his side, Jefferson opened his eyes. “No,” he told the air beside her head. “This is what I should’ve done a long time ago; what I didn’t do. I can’t think of what I can do to try to make up for what I _did_.”

If this was his way to try to make things up, Sally would’ve rejected it immediately. Her family needed the money, she knew, and maybe she had earned all of it by allowing Jefferson to… to do what he had. To rape her. 

But the money would be too filthy to touch.

It wasn’t just her body. It was every single time he corrected her posture, every time he told her how to dress and act and sometimes even feel. It was every time he looked at her and called her _Martha_ and _darlin’_ in that Virginian drawl that was now poisonous to her. It was her home and her soul and everything she had to sell.

All of the extra money she had received from Jefferson was meant for her mother. She could never bring herself to spend it for herself. She could barely even stand to touch it.

“You tried to make me into her,” Sally said softly. She stared down at her hands, and her shoulders shook. She bit her lips and steadied herself. “I loved her once, too, you know. I loved her because she was sweet and beautiful and kind, and…”

She shook her head. None of that mattered. Not anymore. She took a shuddering breath.

“There’s nothing you can do to make up for what you did,” she told Jefferson, and watched as that little flicker of hope died in his eyes. It gave her no pleasure, no victory; only a crushing sorrow that pressed all around her.

“Nothing you can do to be forgiven either.” She never wanted to see him as a man, and yet she always did. She understood him down to his bones. His touch would always linger upon her. Yet she was sure, whatever he said, whatever changes he went through, she would only be a doll once used and then thrown away to him. Not even a passing ghost.

The thought didn’t tear through her; she was too used to it for that. But it hurt anyway.

Jimmy was silent next to her. But his shoulder, bumping against hers, was a comfort anyway.

“Okay,” Jefferson said. He squeezed his eyes shut, and clasped his hands together. “Okay.” She waited. “What can I do?”

“Please leave,” Sally said. “Just go. Please, just go, and never… never come near me again. This…” She waved to the papers in front of her. “I’ll have to talk to the rest of my family. When we’ve decided, I’ll tell Angelica. And Angelica will tell you.”

“That’s fine with me,” Angelica said. She put her cup down. She didn’t reach out to touch Sally, but the warmth of her gaze was solid enough anyway. “I’ll see him out.”

“Yeah,” Jefferson said. He stood up. He didn’t stumble, but his hands were shaking. He twisted them in the hem of his sweater.

As Angelica led him to the door, he stopped beside the couch. He turned, and looked at Sally. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I really am.”

“I know,” Sally said, looking away. “It’s not enough.” Not for this. Not even the money was enough to make up for all that he had done.

“Thank you,” Jefferson said, voice still as soft as before. “For agreeing to meet me.”

He waited for a few moments. When Sally didn’t answer, didn’t even turn to look at him, he started walking again. Sally heard the door close. She let her head drop onto Jimmy’s shoulder, and shuddered against the arm that wrapped around her waist.

“Am I doing the right thing?” she asked her brother. She reached out when she felt the couch sink down next to her, and held on tightly to Angelica’s hand.

“Can’t answer that for you, girlie,” Jimmy said. He kissed her temple. “Does it feel right, what you did?”

“It was the only thing I could do,” Sally said. She took in a shaking inhale of his familiar scent of cloves and pencil shavings. “The only thing I could bring myself to do.”

“Then that’s the right thing,” Jimmy said firmly.

Sally wished she could believe him. She wished she could hold onto Angelica’s warmth, and the sweetness of the kiss in her hair. But both comforts slipped from her hands, and she was only left with an aching hollowness deep within.

She was still so tired. She was starting to forget what it felt like to not be.

***

_April 30, Saturday_

Despite how heavy the collar looked, the steel hinges made no sound when it was slid open. Alexander tipped his head back, closing his eyes when he felt the weight settle over his neck. It rested right above the hollow of his throat. The leather lining slid over his Adam’s apple when Burr hooked his finger into the ring in the centre, shifting it back and forth.

“Swallow,” Burr said. When Alexander obeyed, the spit went down easily. Burr nodded. He picked the chain off the floor.

The links were as plain and heavy as the collar; functionality over aesthetics. The only purpose it had was to remind Alexander of his place and the promise he had made. His eyes slid shut as Burr slipped the chain onto the padlock attached to the collar, and turned the key.

“What’s your safeword, boy?” Burr asked. His voice was so soft, but the steel in it was a pressure in the air as steady as the one around his throat.

“Words, Master,” Alexander slurred out. “It’s words.”

At the tug on the collar, he unfolded his legs and stood up. He didn’t open his eyes as Burr led him out of the bedroom and through the hallway of his own apartment. When Burr stopped, he stopped as well, and sank back down onto his knees when the chain slackened. Burr sat down on the chair right beside him, and wound the end of the chain around the closest leg.

“Good boy,” he told Alexander. He shivered, and let out a gasping sigh when Burr’s hand slid through his hair, pulling off the tie. The strands fell down around his shoulders, loose and messy, but when he opened his eyes, there was only warmth in those dark eyes.

He raised his hand without Burr asking for it. He watched as Burr tied the dark ribbon, with the silver key threaded through it, onto his wrist.

“Do you remember your safe gesture, boy?” Burr asked. He didn’t let Alexander’s wrist go, instead curling his fingers around it.

Blinking, Alexander tried to remember. That was something new, something they had come up with only last night, so he had to struggle for a moment. Eventually, he turned his hand, and tapped Burr on the wrist: twice quickly, and then once, slower.

Burr stroked through his hair again. “Good boy,” he whispered. His breath ghosted over Alexander’s temple as he kissed his hair. “You’re being very good so far.”

“Thank you, Master,” Alexander said. He didn’t try to hide the tremor that wreaked through him at the praise. He was pleasing his Master, and it felt so good. Why would he hide it?

His eyes fell shut again when Burr didn’t speak further. He didn’t try to prompt, much less ask, because he knew that they were waiting for something to happen. Instead, he leaned in, nuzzling Burr’s knee with his cheek, just a little. Burr’s fingers stroked over his face, the touch gentle and almost teasing, as a reward.

It might have been three minutes, it might have been an hour, but eventually Alexander heard a rapid knock on the door. He squeezed his eyes shut instinctively, pressing his face into his Master’s thigh.

“Shh,” Burr soothed, his fingers trailing through Alexander’s hair. “It’s going to be alright. I’ll be here.”

Alexander made a sound, barely more than a whine. He tried to shake his head, but Burr’s hand had tightened on the strands. The short, tugging pain sent a shot of white-hot pleasure down his spine. Alexander lifted his head up, meeting those dark eyes.

“That’s not going to work,” Burr told him dryly. His hand slipped away from Alexander and, uncaring about the whine, he stood up. “You know that this is good for you, boy, so stay here.”

He didn’t want Burr to go away. He didn’t want Burr to get the door. If the door opened, then the grey, foggy peace would be broken. But Burr was no longer sitting on the chair, and the thin cushion was a poor replacement for his thigh. Alexander buried his face into it anyway, fingers toying with the ribbon on his wrist.

Footsteps. A lot of them. Then: “What the fuck.”

Mulligan’s voice. Alexander stilled. Burr had told him that he had warned Lafayette and Ms Schuyler about what was going to happen today, and he had asked of them to help warn the others as well. But maybe words weren’t good enough to steel them against the sight of Alexander, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers, literally collared and chained to the chair.

They didn’t understand. They wouldn’t understand. He was going to hurt them all over again.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Burr said, his voice cutting through the others that Alexander refused to register. His black loafers came into Alexander’s vision, and Alexander lifted his head so that Burr could sit down. He still refused to look at the occupants in the room, burying his face into Burr’s thigh and wrapping his arms around his calf.

“This isn’t as bad as I feared it might be,” Ms Schuyler said, sounding half-amused. “Can you give me a moment, Burr? I need to call Maria so she knows it is okay for her to come in.”

“Go on, Eliza,” Burr said. “Nothing will happen without all of you being here. The rest of you, please, take a seat.”

More murmurs. Then, a sharp voice, clearly accusing: “What have you done to him that he’s being so quiet?”

Alexander whined. He pressed his face harder into Burr’s thigh while trying to shake his head at the same time. It wasn’t like that. Laurens was wrong. And Alexander hadn’t done anything to deserve that protectiveness…

“I didn’t do anything that he didn’t want or need me to,” Burr said calmly.

A sharp intake of breath.

“Calm down, John,” Lafayette murmured. “Let’s wait for Eliza and Maria so that Burr and Alexander can explain the situation to us all at once.”

“That’s only if Alexander will talk at all,” Laurens spat. Then there were murmurs Alexander couldn’t catch wholly – Mulligan’s voice – and, for some reason, Laurens didn’t say anything else.

The sound of footsteps again. Sharper this time, clicking on the crappy flooring of Alexander’s apartment.

“Maria,” Burr greeted. His hand rested on Alexander’s neck; a steady, reassuring weight. “It’s good to see you again. Please, take a seat.”

Ms Lewis didn’t say a word. Ms Schuyler didn’t speak either. Alexander was starting to shake again. He hugged Burr’s leg even tighter.

“ _Now_ can we get that damned explanation?” Laurens said, close to snarling. “It better be good, Burr.”

“John,” Mulligan said. The sheer weight of his voice wasn’t aimed towards Alexander, but it was nearly enough to make him lift his head. He didn’t know this part… No, he shouldn’t assume. Assumptions were what had landed him here in the first place.

“I’ve invited all of you here today because Alexander has something to say to all of you,” Burr said. His thumb stroked over the jutting knob at the top of Alexander’s spine as his other fingers toyed with his hairline. 

“You’ve told us that,” Ms Schuyler said, her voice sweet and calm. Alexander’s nails sank into Burr’s slacks. “But that doesn’t explain why Alexander is collared and chained to your chair, Burr.”

“If you’ll give us just a moment…” Burr told her. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing Alexander’s hair. “Be a good boy and show them what we practiced yesterday,” he said, loud enough for the room to hear.

“He has a name!” Laurens yelled, the sound of his voice like a sudden whip that sent Alexander crashing back into the safety of Burr’s leg. “Why aren’t you calling him by his _name?!_ ”

“Fuck’s sake,” Mulligan growled. There was the sound of footsteps, then a sharper sound of a scuffle. “Gil, some help will be great _right now_.”

“But you’re doing fine,” Lafayette drawled. More footsteps, nonetheless, and then a muffled shout. A quieter, more feminine gasp, then Ms Schuyler’s voice, murmuring.

“Are we all calm now?” Burr asked. There wasn’t a verbal reply. “Alright, boy.” A squeeze to the back of Alexander’s neck. “Show them.”

Slowly, Alexander nodded. He took a deep breath, inhaling Burr’s clean, woodsy scent, before he straightened. He kept his eyes closed as he turned his body around so he was facing the voices.

Then he took the key off his wrist. He slipped it into the padlock at the collar’s ring, and turned it. At the sound off the snap, he let the chain fall into a clatter onto the floor. His fingers wrapped around the collar, thumbs wedging into the catches, and he pulled the whole thing off.

“Oh,” Laurens breathed.

Lowering his head, Alexander bit his lip. He raised his hands, still holding the collar, to Burr. 

“Please, Master,” he whispered. The sound of his voice reverberated through the room back into his ears. “Please let me earn my name.”

Burr’s fingers brushed his cheek. Alexander nuzzled them instinctively before they pulled away, taking the collar. He tipped his head back and let Burr put the whole works – collar and padlock and chain – back on him again.

“This is what he needs,” Burr told their guests. Alexander nodded, tucking his chin down further so his hair fell over his face. Burr brushed the strands away, and tipped his head back up.

“Open your eyes, boy,” he said quietly. “You may look at me when you do, but open your eyes.”

Alexander promised to obey. More than that, he _wanted_ to obey. So he nodded. His eyes opened. There was too much light despite the curtains having been drawn, but he only blinked rapidly, keeping his gaze on Burr’s dark, intense gaze.

“Good,” Burr brushed a thumb over his lip. Alexander opened his mouth, a little hopeful, but Burr shook his head and pulled away. His fingertips nudged at Alexander’s jaw. “Turn around. Look at your friends.”

He didn’t want to. But this wasn’t about his wants, not anymore. So he nodded, murmuring another, “Yes, Master,” before he turned around.

The first face he saw was Lafayette’s. He was standing up, brows furrowed. Alexander followed the line of his shoulders down to his hand, which was clenched around Laurens’s shoulder. Laurens was in Mulligan’s lap, one broad arm encircling his waist and pinning his arms down. Laurens’s eyes were wide on him, lips parted, and the dark brown strands of his hair were tangled in Mulligan’s other hand. Mulligan’s eyes were narrowed, his face unreadable. 

“Over there, boy,” Burr told him, thumb brushing over the edge of his hairline. “Look over there.”

Taking a deep breath, Alexander looked. Ms Schuyler was seated cross-legged on her chair, and her hand was holding on, white-knuckled tight, to Ms Lewis’s. Ms Lewis’s face was turned away, her loose hair hiding her face from his sight. As Alexander watched, his heart thumping louder and louder in his chest, Ms Schuyler raised their joined hands, and pressed a soft kiss onto Ms Lewis’s knuckles.

“Master, I can’t,” Alexander choked out. “Please, I can’t. Don’t make me do this.”

“I’m not making you,” Burr said, his voice cold. His hand slipped away from Alexander entirely. “You’re doing this because there’s something you must earn.”

“But I can’t do it, Master,” he shook his head, arms wrapping around his torso because it was so cold without Burr’s grounding, steadying touch. “I can’t do it.”

There were no other voices than his in the room. Alexander could feel the weight of their gazes, and he shrunk even further into himself.

“Ah,” Burr said. “I see.”

He stood up from the chair. Alexander watched him, breath caught in his throat. Maybe, maybe… Burr headed for the kitchen. When he came back, he came with a flogger. Laurens’s gasp was loud in the room, but Alexander kept his eyes on Burr, refusing to look at his best friend.

Until he couldn’t not look at Laurens, because Burr was holding the flogger out to _him_.

“Would you like to do the honours?” Burr asked, his voice silk-smooth. “You see, if I’m the one to do it, then I’ll be giving him what he wants.”

“No!” Alexander shouted. He jerked forward, dragging the chair halfway with him. The legs screeched against the floor. “Please, Master. Please don’t give it to him. Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be good!”

“Oh?” Burr cocked his head. The flogger, thankfully, turned away from Laurens. “Why is it so different, boy? Why is it so different?”

Laurens still wasn’t saying a word. His eyes were wide and wild, shifting between Alexander and Burr. His hand clenched and unclenched over Mulligan’s wrist. Alexander tore his eyes away from him. 

“Because,” he swallowed hard, fingers trembling as he dropped them into his lap. “You like it, Master. You like it when you hit me. He… he doesn’t.”

“What about you?” Burr pressed, mercilessly forcing Alexander to strip away all of his defences in front of those whom he still loved, all those he’d ruined. “Do you like it?”

“Master, I…” Alexander faltered. His face flushed hot with shame, and he knew that his cock was hardening from the heat. They could all see it; all watch the head nudging against the cloth of his boxers. “I like it, Master.”

“Good boy,” Burr said. He took a step forward. “Look away, Maria. Please, look away. Try to not listen, if you can.”

Before Alexander could process the warning, the flogger struck him across the face. His teeth sliced over his lip; blood flooded his mouth and he choked on it, bending over. He coughed, swallowing hard. The flogger came down again, hitting him on the other side, and he rolled over on the floor. The chain clattered.

“Pain,” Burr said, his voice sounding distant, “is not a punishment for this boy. He _likes_ it, you see.” His foot came down on Alexander’s crotch, grinding hard, and Alexander’s back arched upwards. His mouth opened but the scream refused to come. “It gets him off. He can’t get off without it.”

“Oh my God,” Laurens said. His voice was a horrible wreck. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

“Poor, delusional boy,” Burr cooed. His foot pressed harder. Alexander’s nails scraped on the floor. “He thinks he has done so many things wrong, and he wants to be punished. But all he knows of punishment is pain, and pain feels _good_. It feels so good, doesn’t it, boy?”

“Yes, Master,” Alexander gasped. There were tears streaming down his face, the salt setting fire to his newly-split lip. “It feels good. Master, you feel so good.”

“That’s because you were good,” Burr informed him. The weight lifted off Alexander’s crotch, and he scrambled up to his knees when Burr pulled on the chain. He crawled after Burr until they reached the chair again, looking up to him.

“Pain is punishment, but pain also feels good,” Burr continued. He stroked the flogger over Alexander’s mouth; Alexander parted his lips and shivered at the thought of it hitting his tongue. “It has him all twisted in knots. He wants to be punished but he’s rewarded every time he tries, and the list of crimes he’s committed in his own head keeps growing.”

“How did you figure this out?” Lafayette asked. Laurens was still muttering in the background, but it was muffled, now.

“Watch,” Burr said. He turned back to Alexander and tapped him on the cheek with the handle of the flogger. “Do you remember your manners, boy?”

“Thank you, Master,” Alexander said, instincts kicking in immediately. He licked his lips. When Burr continued to look at him, eyebrows raised, he leaned forward and slid his lips around the flogger. He took the handle in entirely before sliding back out, opening his mouth with a soft ‘pop’. “Thank you, flogger.”

“Good boy,” Burr said. He patted Alexander on the head, and turned back to Lafayette. “See?”

“I do see,” Lafayette said. For some inexplicable reason, he sounded _amused._ “But I think you have to explain it a little more for everyone else.”

“The technical term is ‘masochist’,” Burr said, slipping on that lecturer’s tone again. He patted Alexander on the cheek. “I didn’t teach him to thank the flogger, but he learned to do it anyway.”

A pause. Then he turned. His eyes met Laurens’s wide, staring ones.

“Everything you did to him that you think was abuse, wasn’t,” Burr said. “This boy,” his hand clenched over the strands of Alexander’s hair, tipping his head up, “ _wants_ all that. He _needs_ all that. The pain. The degradation. The humiliation. It is _good_ to him.”

“If anyone did anything wrong, it was me,” Alexander said, his voice hoarse but the words coming easily with the pain still thrumming through him. “ I should’ve known. I should’ve told you.”

Laurens opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Burr let go. “That was bad,” he said, voice like a sharp blade sheathed in silk again. “That was very, very bad, boy. Take off your collar and chain and stand up. Stay still for five minutes.”

“Master,” Alexander started.

“You were being dishonest,” Burr told him, eyebrow raising. “You were lying to yourself again. Do you disagree?”

Alexander lowered his head. “No, Master,” he mumbled, just a little grumpily. He knew Burr was right, but it didn’t mean he had to _like_ it.

“Go,” Burr nudged him with a hand. Not even a foot; not fair. “Do as I say.”

Heaving a sigh, Alexander didn’t bother hiding his sulk as he took his collar and chain off. He stood up, legs together and back straight. He tucked his hands behind him and stayed very still. He gave Burr a glare through hooded lashes because he _could_ be good, and his Master just had to see that.

“If you keep being a brat, it will be ten minutes,” Burr told him. Alexander stuck out his lip for a moment and then wiped the expression from his face.

“Again,” Lafayette said, leaning more against Mulligan’s chair now while his hand carded slowly through Laurens’s hair, “how did you figure that out?”

“I’m not exactly an easy Dom,” Burr said. Alexander forced himself to not snort, but Burr sent him a pointed look over his shoulder anyway. “But I had an advantage that none of you had.”

“What do you mean?” Laurens asked hoarsely. When he lifted his head, his face was streaked with tears.

“When I started playing with this boy, I wasn’t his friend.” Alexander didn’t need Burr to turn around to see the thin smile on his lips. “He was everything I despised. I was also everything he despised. Clarity came easier with objectivity.”

“As far as I know, Doms are supposed to care about their subs,” Mulligan said. His voice was dry, but there was something in his eyes that belied that nonchalance. Especially with how tight he was still holding onto Laurens.

“There’s a big difference in caring about your sub as a friend, and caring for them as a sub,” Burr shrugged. 

“That’s a difference that only exists for you, I believe,” Lafayette shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Sorry to interrupt your captivating discussion,” Ms Lewis said. She had finally lifted her head from Ms Schuyler’s shoulder. “But what are the two of us doing here, Burr, if this is just going to be about what happened among the four of them?”

“Especially since we don’t _know_ what happened among the four of them,” Ms Schuyler added.

Burr sighed, running a hand over his head. He craned his neck over to check the clock. “There’s a minute and a half left,” he informed the two women. “When that’s over, we’ll get to that part.”

His lips curved up into a smile that was both like and unlike his usual – there was just a little too much wryness in it. “This was supposed to go in chronological order of events, you see.”

Alexander tried to not look down. Then he tried to not shift from foot to foot. Then his hands.

“Stop fidgeting, boy,” Burr snapped at him without looking around. “Don’t make them wait.” Alexander went still again.

“We can wait,” Ms Schuyler said. Her arm wrapped around Ms Lewis’s shoulders, pulling her close. “But that was… that was very harsh.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Burr told Ms Lewis. Alexander didn’t need to look into his eyes to know that he was being sincere. He forced himself to not bite his lip.

“It’s fine,” Ms Lewis said. She brushed her hair out of her face with a slightly tremulous hand. “You’re not done with the explanation they deserve, either. Or the apologies.”

Nodding to her, Burr returned to his chair. He checked the clock again, eyes narrowed, before he lifted a hand and crooked his fingers. Alexander closed his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh, before he put on the collar and chain again without fumbling, and went to kneel beside his feet.

“Better?” Burr asked him.

“Yes, Master,” Alexander nodded. He leaned towards the hand stroking through his hair, nuzzling Burr’s wrist. He breathed in the scent of him again, this time locking it in his lungs, before he turned back to look at Laurens.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was wrong to make you think that you were hurting me. But I couldn’t have known, because I didn’t… I didn’t realise…” He paused, turning his head and rubbing his face over Burr’s shin again. “I can’t do it, Master. I can’t do it.”

“Alright,” Burr said. His voice was calm, nearly cold in its insouciance, and Alexander clung to it. “How about you retell the whole thing? Tell them all what you think happened between all of you, from beginning to end.”

“Okay,” Alexander said. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a shuddering breath. “I can do that.”

“We practiced that,” Burr confirmed. He wasn’t speaking to Alexander, though his hand was still stroking through his hair. “So now tell them what you told me.”

Closing his eyes, Alexander nodded. He had written all this down. He just had to say it. It should be easy.

“May I start with my third year of college for us, Ms Schuyler?” he asked, turning to her. She took a deep, shuddering breath, hand over her mouth. When she nodded, he lowered his eyes. “We were together then, Ms Schuyler. It started during my second year and your first, and we had been happy during the summer. I had been happy with you. But I had been…” He chewed on his lip. “I had been reading up on some things. I… I went to a club. That was when I met you, Ms Lewis.”

Her reaction was much more subdued than Ms Schuyler’s: a slight widening of the eyes. “I met you and… I should have known by then that something wasn’t right. It was a dungeon and there were rules, and what… what _he_ did was against the rules. But I was curious, and I wanted to try, and…”

“Don’t start painting me as a victim,” Ms Lewis said, red-painted lips curving up into a sharp smile. “I came to you. Sure, I might have done so because I didn’t have much of a choice in the first place, but I came to you.”

“But I was the one who said yes,” Alexander whispered. She looked away, and he stared down at his hands. “I said yes even though I was in a relationship with Ms Schuyler at the time. I continued to say yes even when I found out that you did it because… because Reynolds,” she winced, “ _that man_ had control of all of your money and you were dependent on him. I still said yes even when he started to… to blackmail me.”

“Why?” Ms Schuyler whispered. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I assumed that you wouldn’t be interested in experimenting with me,” Alexander told the floor. “Because I assumed that, at the same time, you’d understand that what I was doing with Ms Lewis wasn’t really cheating on you. We didn’t… we didn’t have sex.”

“But we did,” Ms Lewis cut in.

“Eventually,” Alexander squeezed his eyes shut. “But at first… I was… I don’t know what I was doing.”

“You know,” Burr said. His hand lifted off of Alexander’s hair. “Be honest. No more excuses.”

“I was trying out being a Dom,” Alexander said, all in a rush. “And it was easier doing it to you because I thought you knew what you were doing and that you liked it and you agreed and it was easier because I didn’t really _know_ you, Ms Lewis, and so it was easier to…” His hands trembled. He clenched them. “It was easier to beat you up than to do it to Ms Schuyler.”

“Jesus Christ,” Laurens whispered.

“None of you knew this part,” Burr confirmed for him. His hand dropped down on Alexander’s shoulder. “Keep going.”

“When R—” he remembered how Ms Lewis looked when he said the name, and so he corrected himself. “When that man was caught for drug pushing, you all knew what happened next. I was implicated because he kept records of receiving money from me. So I…”

“Something’s left out,” Ms Schuyler interrupted. Her voice was soft, but steely.

Alexander nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. Burr dug his fingers into his shoulder; he focused on the pain and continued, “To pay that man, I was working more. I wrote more essays for other people. I neglected you, Ms Schuyler. I made you feel ignored.”

“Yes,” Ms Schuyler said.

“Then I wrote that post,” he said. “I left out everything I thought everyone wouldn’t understand. I made it sound like Ms Lewis seduced me and I cheated on Ms Schuyler. It was only supposed to be on the Internet but the campus newsletter picked it up and published it and I said yes to that too.”

“Never figured out why you did that,” Mulligan murmured.

“Because I knew that if I was implicated with drugs, they would take my scholarship away,” Alexander said. Burr’s grip lightened, and he gritted his teeth. “I just wanted to clear my name. And I was willing to do whatever it took to do it.”

“No matter who it hurt,” Ms Schuyler said. When Alexander finally looked at her, her smile was crooked and there was something broken in her eyes. “You apologised then, Alexander, but I never could believe that you were apologising for what you should be.”

“I’m sorry for assuming. I’m sorry for being so selfish.” He faltered.

“Boy,” Burr prompted, his voice heavy with warning.

“And I’m very sorry for keeping away from both of you for all of these years,” he continued, staring into Ms Schuyler’s brown eyes even though he wanted more than anything to look away.

“Do you really mean that?” Ms Schuyler asked.

Alexander opened his mouth. He closed it. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I’m trying to mean it.” Was that enough?

Apparently not: Ms Lewis’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward. “You know, I really don’t care if you continue talking to me or not,” she said softly. “I’m here because I wanted to hear some kind of acknowledgment from you for what you did – which I still haven’t received – but Eliza cares about that. She, for some reason, wants you back in her life as a friend again. ‘Trying’ isn’t going to be good enough.”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Alexander opened his mouth.

“If you’re apologising, stop,” Burr told him. “You’re good with plans, boy. Give Eliza a plan.”

Wreaking his brain, Alexander blurted out. “The Sanctuary. I can help out at the Sanctuary. A weekly volunteering basis. If I don’t turn up, you can… you can…”

“I’ll tell Burr,” Ms Schuyler finished for him. “And he’ll make sure that you don’t behave like a complete coward with me again.”

He flinched, but the description was accurate. “Okay,” he said. Volunteering once per week. A couple of hours per week. He would need to cut down on his working hours. He could do that. He needed to do that.

“So I’m his keeper,” Burr said. He sounded amused. “Alright. I’m going to be his keeper now. Stop being a coward with Maria, boy.” Wasn’t he trying hard enough? “You should be doing better than this.”

Goddammit. Alexander bit his lip. When he tried to press his face into Burr’s knee, there were two fingers on his forehead stopping him. Burr’s eyes were cold. “Boy,” he said.

Alright. Alexander had to earn his name. No matter what, he had to earn the right to be called by his name. He took another shuddering breath.

“When I wrote the post,” he said, turning to Ms Lewis again, “I said that you had seduced me. I tried my best to make me look good and I posted all of the texts between us. I destroyed your reputation. I made your life hell. And I…” He met her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes bored into his for long moments. “Okay,” she said, leaning back against her chair. She didn’t say anything else; that was all he would be given. That was what he had to live with.

Slowly, he turned towards the three men in the room. Lafayette had returned to his seat, and his dark eyes were constantly flickering between him and Burr, brows furrowed. Laurens was now sitting on his own chair as well, but Mulligan’s hand was still on his shoulder.

“After… after what happened, the three of you still stuck by me,” Alexander whispered. “I didn’t deserve it, but you stuck by me. Especially you, Laurens. You stayed with me even after I made the stupid drunken mistake of telling you what really went on between me and Ms Lewis and Ms Schuyler—”

“ _Boy_ ,” Burr said, voice whip-sharp.

“The mistake wasn’t in telling you,” Alexander corrected himself immediately. “The mistake was that I lied, again. I made myself look better again. With Ms Lewis, I took on the role of a Dom. I was bad to her but I didn’t tell you that. I only told you that the role didn’t suit me, and I wanted to try something else. The mistake was that I cried on you so much that you ended up offering to Dom me.”

“That’s not what happened,” Laurens interrupted. He dragged his hand over his hair, then his face. “Jesus Christ, that’s really not what happened.”

Alexander blinked. For the first time, he was genuinely flummoxed. “What?”

“I didn’t offer because I felt _bad_ for you,” Laurens told him, leaning forward with his elbow on his knees. “But because…” He hesitated, eyes darting from Lafayette to Mulligan, and then back again. Alexander stared.

“What our dear John is trying to say,” Lafayette cut in at this moment, “is that he had been experimenting with ways to deal with his anger with Hercules and me.” He fetched Alexander a smile too soft for the light in his eyes. “I would Dom him. Hercules would look for other methods.”

“We were working on John as a team,” Mulligan picked up the thread. “We had decided to not tell you because you had so much shit to deal with at the time, and we knew that you’d want the same thing even though your needs were very different. What we were doing to John would’ve been bad for you.”

Cocking his head, Alexander continued staring. Then he looked up to Burr.

“The boy is very curious about what actually happened, but he doesn’t know if he has the right to ask,” Burr translated for him.

“You always have the fucking right to fucking ask,” Laurens said. He rubbed his face with both hands. “Fuck, I hate this fucking part, okay? I hate this fucking permission thing. I hate it that you’re not calling him by his fucking name, Burr. I hate that even I’m dragged into talking about him like he’s not there. It sounds wrong, it looks wrong, but it makes sense for you two, and.” He took a shuddering breath. “Fuck.”

“ _That_ ,” Mulligan said, “is why what we’re doing isn’t right for you.”

Reaching over, Lafayette ruffled Laurens’s hair. He planted a soft kiss on his cheek. “What we’d do to our darling John is to get him to expend all that anger in constructive ways,” he said. “Mulligan taught him boxing. I would tie him up and let him struggle, and then I would hold him when he got tired and tell him that he was good.”

Alexander couldn’t help it: he shuddered. Being treated like that would have made him scream out of frustration.

“See?” Lafayette laughed. “That reaction is why we didn’t tell you.”

“I didn’t even know that you were into this,” Alexander blurted out, looking at Mulligan

“Honestly, I’m not,” he shrugged. “Not what I’m seeing right now. Not what I’ve seen Gil do. It’s not my thing.”

For some reason, Ms Lewis raised her hand. Mulligan raised his. They exchanged a high-five without moving anything other than their arms.

“In all seriousness, though,” Mulligan continued as if nothing had happened, even though Ms Schuyler was collapsing into giggles right on her chair, “I get why you guys are into this. I really do. It looks nice. But there are other ways to make sure my friends end up okay, and I prefer those.” 

“They were tag-teaming me, okay,” Laurens said into his hands. “At the time that you were going through the worst shit of your life, I was getting _my_ shit together because of Herc and Gil. And I… I felt bad.”

“So you offered,” Alexander prompted gently.

“Yeah,” Laurens said. “Shitty decision on your side, and shitty decision on my side. I think we’re pretty even.”

“Except for the part where I made you think that you were abusing me,” Alexander said, looking down at his knees.

“Okay, given what I just saw, that’s like, shitty assumptions and miscommunication all over the place,” Laurens sighed. Alexander snuck a glance upwards, and watched his best friend continuously smack his forehead against Lafayette’s bony shoulder while Mulligan patted his hair. “Look, all I knew about Doms came from Gil, okay? And Gil was… Gil is _sweet_. He gave me everything I needed and he was always okay no matter how bad I got. So that was what I thought it should be _like_.”

“Well,” Lafayette said.

“No,” Burr interrupted suddenly. He jabbed a finger in Lafayette’s direction. “No. I have one boy to deal with. He’s already a handful. Do not.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Laurens said, raising his voice above Lafayette’s hysterical laughter. “Look, I had a bunch of issues I was dealing with that I didn’t tell you because you were dealing with your shit, and those issues just… added to what I thought I was doing, and…”

During their senior year, Laurens had had a complete nervous breakdown. It had happened right after a scene he’d played with Alexander. Alexander had always thought it was because of him. He had always known Laurens wasn’t as strong as the front he put up – he was porcelain on the inside, and Alexander had broken him.

“I didn’t break you,” he whispered, staring at Laurens with wide eyes. “I _didn’t break you_.”

“You kind of did?” Laurens lifted one shoulder. “But only kind of. Part of it is also a bunch of other shit, including my dad, who is shit. Still, even the part that broke me wasn’t the beating you up part. It was when you just fucking went and _disappeared_ on all of us even when living in the same city.”

“But I was trying to make things better!” Alexander cried. “You were… I saw you, okay? It was my fault. I thought it was my fault. And I made everything so much _worse_ for… for…” he waved his hand towards Ms Schuyler and Ms Lewis. “For them. Everyone I touched ended up being hurt and I don’t want you to _die_ because of me.”

“Wait, what the fuck,” Laurens said. He stood up, crossing over the lines and falling down to his knees. “Why the fuck would I die because of you?”

“ _Everyone_ around me dies,” Alexander shouted. He knew it was ridiculous, but… “Everyone! My mom, my cousin… And just when I thought everything was going fine, I made everything bad _again_ and I had to go, okay? I had to go or else you would end up dead like—”

“Fuck this permission bullshit,” Laurens snarled, interrupting him. He grabbed Alexander by the face, pulling him close until their foreheads touched. “Look, I’m still alive, okay? Despite everything, despite my _own goddammit efforts,_ I’m still alive. I’m still breathing. I’m even on the better side of okay, now. You’re not going to kill me by being close to me.”

“That’s,” Alexander started. Laurens shook him, hard, and the words died in his throat. When Burr’s hand left his shoulder, he flung his arms around Laurens and held him close.

“Is that what you think?” Ms Schuyler’s voice was suddenly very close. “You screw up once, and if you keep staying with someone, they end up dead?”

Alexander buried his face into Laurens’s shoulder. He nodded.

“Oh, _Alexander_ ,” Ms Schuyler said. The sound of his name on her lips made him shudder, and he clung onto Laurens even harder when he felt her arms wrap around his back.

“There’s only one person I know who _does_ end up with people around him dead and it’s undeniably his fault,” Burr said. “And trust me, you’re nothing like Levi Weeks.”

“No, no, no,” Alexander protested. He scrambled out of Laurens’s and Ms Schuyler’s embraces, moving upwards until he was half-standing next to Burr’s chair. “Don’t do that. Don’t make yourself remember him just to make me feel better. Please, Master. No.”

“I’m not remembering him,” Burr said, squeezing Alexander’s shoulder hard, thumb digging into his clavicle. “I’m making a statement. Calm down. Go back to your group hug.”

Alexander narrowed his eyes, squinting at Burr’s face. There was only calm there, no shadows, so he nodded to himself and slipped back down to his knees.

“Group hug,” Lafayette said suddenly. “Good idea.” He slammed himself into Alexander’s and Laurens’s sides, drawing yelps out of both of them, and threw his ridiculously long arms around them.

Mulligan wasn’t nearly as polite. He simply wedged himself into the other side. For some reason, he blew air into Alexander’s ear, making him laugh.

“I’m staying out of this,” he heard Ms Lewis say. “I like you, kind of, but not that much.”

“Okay,” Alexander said, voice muffled by too many bodies around him. “I’m really happy that you kind of like me. I was a bastard to you.”

“Yeah, you said,” Ms Lewis drawled. “That’s why there’s even a kind of.”

It couldn’t be this easy. Alexander had hurt them all so much. But they were here, surrounding him, embracing him. Laurens’s chest moved against his own. Ms Schyuler’s face was in his shoulder. Lafayette was laughing against his neck. Mulligan was still breathing into his ear. It shouldn’t be this easy.

“Go ahead,” Burr murmured, his knuckles stroking over Alexander’s temple. “It’s good for you, boy.”

Alexander stopped trying. He sniffled once. Then he was trying to curl into himself as the tears came, harsh and sudden, sobs tearing through his throat. The arms drew around him tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” he tried to say. “I’m really so sorry. I’m going to be better now. I’m going to do better now. I’m so sorry.”

He was blubbering, making a mess out of himself. Out of Laurens’s shirt and probably Lafayette’s hair and Ms Schuyler’s sleeve and even Mulligan’s hand. But none of them pulled away. They held him tight.

Then Burr’s hand slid off of him. 

“Stay,” Alexander gasped out through a closing throat. “Master, stay. Please stay.”

“If you go,” Mulligan said, “I’ll hunt you down until you tell us how you managed this. I’m a detective, Burr. Don’t test me. I’ll go _Taken_ on you.”

“Honestly, it’s not very hard,” Burr said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “All of you just needed to talk to each other instead of keeping silent about things.”

Okay, that. Alexander didn’t know when his sobbing turned into laughter, but the sound of his own cackles filled his ears pretty quickly. He tried to stifle himself, but it was too difficult, so he just kept on laughing.

Laurens punched him on the shoulder. “Explain,” he demanded.

“It’s…” Alexander choked, shaking his head. He pulled himself out of the arms around him, looking up to Burr. “Master, I wish I had recorded that moment. I would caption it ‘ _irony_ ’.”

“No,” Burr said, and flicked him on the forehead. There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Shut up and go back to your group hug.”

“But,” Alexander said. 

“Alexandre has a point,” Lafayette said, even though Alexander didn’t actually have one. His long arm reached up and grabbed Burr by the collar of his polo shirt. He _pulled_.

The squawk that Burr made when he hit the ground made Alexander laugh again. And the incoherent sound that rang out through the room when Lafayette shoved Burr against Alexander and Laurens just made everything worse.

“Oh, look, the last bastion of sanity is gone,” Ms Lewis sighed heavily. “I’m just staying here. Behind Eliza. Protected from all of you.”

“Yes, sweetheart, I’ll protect you,” Ms Schuyler said. The nickname didn’t twist something in Alexander. “Save you from the happy people. Let you keep your bubble of intense cynicism.”

“Let me go,” Burr was saying. “Lafayette. Don’t test me.”

“Nah,” Mulligan said. “You used my line. The service charge is staying here.”

“All of you shut up,” Laurens muttered. “The moment is being ruined because you all have a shit sense of humour.”

“There is no moment,” Burr said.

“There is so a fucking moment and you’re part of it,” Laurens said. “Seriously. Give up on the all-powerful Dom and Master thing for now, okay? It’s shit.”

“Is your vocabulary mostly swear words?” Burr drawled.

“It is when I’m not at work, fuckstick,” Laurens told him sweetly. 

“He only calls people ‘fuckstick’ when he likes them,” Mulligan informed Burr. “It’s his special nickname.”

“Can you all seriously shut the fuck up?” Laurens yelled.

“You’re the loudest,” Ms Schuyler pointed out. “It’s like the paradox of the librarian shushing people. They end up being the loudest person in the room.”

“Am I the only one getting college flashbacks?” Lafayette asked, voice bright. “Because this is giving me intense college flashbacks, and it is wonderful.”

Reaching out, Alexander managed to find Burr’s shoulder. He could tell the difference between his body heat and everyone else’s by now. He squeezed. Though the first two years of college was wonderful for him, he knew that it had all been hell for Burr.

“Shh, we’re all adults,” he said. “We’re being adults, adulting right now. Enjoy adulthood.”

“One thing I really didn’t miss about you?” Laurens said into his hair. “I mean, I kind of missed everything but I didn’t miss your sense of humour. Seriously, Ham, it’s shit.” 

“You enjoy no one’s senses of humour because you have none, my dear Laurens,” Alexander drawled. It was impossibly easy to slip back into old habits. Like a hoodie shoved into the back of a closet for over a decade that should be mouldy and shouldn’t fit, and yet did anyway. He squeezed Burr’s shoulder tighter.

No one made a smart comment after that. Alexander didn’t want to think about why. He enjoyed the moment of having all of his friends around him, still being his friends despite all that he had done to them.

Slowly, they peeled themselves apart. Laurens’s shirt was wet, and so was Ms Schuyler’s sleeve. The spots were starting to dry, though. Lafayette brushed a hand over his face, and there was something achingly sweet in his dark eyes, his smile. Laurens had to be physically pulled away from Mulligan so that the latter could stand.

When Burr heaved himself back to his chair, Alexander shuffled next to him. He raised himself up on his knees and planted his face into Burr’s thigh. His shoulders shook.

“Thank you, Master,” he whispered. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s your own efforts, boy,” Burr told him. He kissed Alexander’s hair. “You did well. You did so well. Such a good boy.”

Alexander’s eyes closed as Burr cupped his cheek. He let out a shuddering breath.

“More than good enough to have your name back,” Burr said. Alexander lifted his wrist, and bit his lip when Burr pulled the ribbon free. He tipped his head back to let Burr unlock the padlock, and trembled again when the collar fell to the floor with a loud clatter. “Hamilton.”

There was a particular way that Burr said his name. Like he draped it in silk and made it beautiful, somehow. Alexander closed his eyes, tilting his head to press a kiss onto the palm cupping his face.

“Burr,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

Those dark eyes were smiling at him when he looked up. Alexander darted a glance towards the others – they were all deliberately looking away – before he scrambled up the chair. It creaked beneath both of their weights, but he cupped Burr’s face with his hands and leaned over him anyway.

They had never kissed. Alexander knew the temperature of Burr’s skin better than his own, but they had never done this. Burr looked at him now, a smile on his lips, and he leaned forward. Alexander met him halfway.

Mint and something vaguely sweet. It matched the scent of wood on Burr’s skin. Alexander knew that Burr was born and bred in the city, and so was he, but kissing Burr was like taking a trip in a forest while the sun was up when one had lived too long in the city. Refreshing, and a little dangerous, a little uncertain. Especially when Burr closed his teeth over Alexander’s split lip and tugged gently.

Pulling away, they leaned against each other. Burr’s fingers trailed down Alexander’s back, over the knobs of his spine. He was still smiling. Alexander traced that smile with his thumb, trying to calculate angles and curves, the exact dimensions of differences between Burr’s usual smile and this.

 _I love you_ , he thought. _You saved me_ , he thought. He didn’t say either. He didn’t have to; Burr already knew. And his eyes were saying back the same. They didn’t really need to talk to communicate, now. Though, Alexander knew, they should. He’d learned enough about making assumptions.

Still, there was this: without need for signals, they pulled away from each other. Alexander leaned on the chair. Burr went to the bedroom and retrieved his clothes.

“You know, I really can’t help but be curious,” Eliza said. “How did the two of you end up together?”

“Someone finally asked,” John rolled his eyes, slumping over the back of the couch that he had migrated to. “Thank you. _God_.”

“I’m not God,” Eliza told him with a sweet smile while Maria barked a laugh beside her. “But thank you for the thought. I’m flattered.”

“Jesus,” John muttered.

“Not Jesus either.”

“Can you two, like,” Herc waved a hand, “stop what you’re doing? John, stop rising to every bait. Training exercise.”

“Your version of a training exercise is to imagine punching them in the face and not doing it in reality,” John replied, tart. “Can you imagine punching that face?” He flapped a hand to Eliza, whose smile had widened and gained a shit-eating quality. “I mean, seriously.”

“Not,” Gil lightly smacked the back of John’s head, “every,” another smack, “bait.” Yet another one. John gave him the middle finger.

Alexander finished pulling on his jeans. He struggled with his t-shirt and said, “It’s a long story.”

“Really long, and some parts of which you won’t get to know,” Burr finished for him, leaning against the doorway to Alexander’s living room.

“Classified information, or just shit you don’t want to tell us?” Herc asked.

“The latter,” Alexander said. He flashed a smile. “Sorry.”

“Was it because of the case?”

“Kind of?” Alexander shrugged. “You can consider it a catalyst.”

Gil opened his mouth, but Herc reached over John and put his hand over it. “Sorry, shop talk for a moment,” he told Gil. “I need you,” he pointed at Alexander, “or you,” he turned around and jabbed the finger at Burr, “to help me with the case.”

Burr went still. No one else could recognise it, but there was a pretty huge difference in Alexander’s eyes between lounging against the wall and his sudden tension now. “What is it?”

“Remember that big huge confession Alexander got from the fucker Weeks?” Herc asked. When Alexander nodded, eyes narrowing, he continued, “We’ve been following up on the case on our end, too. Turns out that Weeks has been buying kidnapped people from a _massive_ human trafficking ring that stretches over three continents.”

Dolls and matchmakers. Alexander shuddered, and headed over to Burr, pressing himself against his side. Burr’s fingers tangled with his, squeezing.

“What do you need?” Burr asked.

“Someone to get more information from the fucker,” Herc told them. He smiled, apologetic. “I know you two want to wash your hands off the case, but the only alternative is Jefferson. And I’ve read the transcript.”

Which meant that he knew what Weeks _said_ to Jefferson. Alexander stifled down a shudder.

“Wait,” Gil protested, yanking Herc’s hand off his mouth. “What did Weeks do to Thomas?” he pronounced Jefferson’s given name the French way: _Toma_.

“Shit you don’t want to know,” Herc grimaced. When Gil opened his mouth, Herc put his hand over it again. “Seriously, you don’t want to know. All I did was read it and I had to take two showers.”

Gil’s eyes narrowed. He nodded without saying anything.

“I’ll do it,” Alexander said.

“No,” Burr shook his head. “He’s not going to trust you, Hamilton. You’re the one who submitted the recording. He’ll see you as a traitor.”

“But you shouldn’t do it either,” Alexander hissed at him. “Not with…” He trailed off, and shook his head hard.

“Is this the part of the story we’re not getting?” Maria drawled.

“Yeah,” Alexander nodded without looking at her. “Burr, if you are going to do it, at least let me come with you.”

“That’s counterproductive,” Burr pointed out, because of course he _would_. “If he sees you there, he’s not going to say anything useful.”

“But that means you’ll have to face him alone,” Alexander said. “ _Burr_.”

“Not alone,” Herc spoke up. “I’ll be with him. Hell, I’ll listen in at every moment. If that helps.”

Alexander exchanged a glance with Burr. He didn’t want Burr to do this. But Burr’s eyes said that no one else _could_ do this, that the ring needed to be brought down, and that one person’s needs didn’t supersede the need of many. All those were logical, but Alexander shook his head anyway. He wrapped his arms around Burr, clinging onto his tense, half-frozen frame.

“Don’t,” he begged in a whisper. “Please don’t do this.” Weeks would see every weakness and try to use them against Burr. That was what a psychopath like him _did_.

“Have to,” Burr told him, sounding resigned. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be coming home to you.”

“That’s hours later,” Alexander argued. He opened his mouth to say more, but Herc interrupted him.

“Or you can give me that psychiatrist’s number,” he said. “That woman who diagnosed him with PTSD. I think she’d like the chance to save her reputation from the beating it’s getting.”

Susanna. Alexander whirled around. He swallowed. “That’s… that’s probably a better idea,” he said. He scrambled for an explanation to give that wouldn’t give Burr away. “Since she didn’t publicly betray him and all.”

“Okay,” Herc nodded. “I’ll do that.” He waved a hand. “Shop talk’s over. Back to story time.”

“Can you all call for pizza first or something?” Gil asked. He was toying with the phone in his hand. “I need to call Thomas.”

“Dude, the trial was like, a week ago,” Herc pointed out.

“I _need_ ,” Gil said, breathing out through his teeth, “to call Thomas.” His hand shook as he ran it through his tied-back hair. He looked ready to run all the way up to Irvington if necessary.

“Okay, okay,” Herc held up his hands. “He’s your friend. You go deal.” His eyes narrowed on Gil. “You want the transcript? I have it on my phone.”

“Yeah,” Gil said, holding out his still-tremulous hand. “Thanks, _mon ami_.”

It was obvious that Gil knew exactly what had happened to Jefferson. Possibly even what had happened during the weekend when he’d done a hundred eighty change. Gil likely had all of the answers about why Jefferson had started twitching when Susanna talked about rape and abuse; why Jefferson had looked such a wreck after Weeks’s recording was played in court.

But Alexander wasn’t concerned with any of it. Jefferson was Gil’s business; not his or Burr’s. Not anymore.

Standing up, Gil took Herc’s phone. He looked at it, nodded, and headed over to Alexander. He threw his arms around him.

“I’ll just be outside the door,” he murmured into Alexander’s ear. “I’m not going anywhere. There’s just… He’s my friend, too.”

“You worry excessively over all of your friends,” Burr said, because he had obviously heard. “Go on.”

Looking at Alexander again, Gil nodded. He scarpered out of the door.

“So,” Alexander clapped his hands, looking at all of them. Their attentions turned back to him from where they watched Gil. “What kind of food do you want?” He held up a hand. “Wait.”

He ran to the kitchen, and then came back with all of the takeout menus he taken from the restaurants around him. “Thai? Chinese? Greek? Italian? I’ve got everything.”

“College flashbacks,” Maria groaned, dropping an arm over her face. When Alexander looked at her expectantly, she held out a hand. “Gimme the Greek one.”

“Chinese,” Laurens demanded.

Alexander passed out the menus. Burr went hunting for clean dishes and gave up halfway. Gil came back after fifteen minutes, looking much calmer. 

For the first time in eight years, Alexander ate with his friends. Unlike in college, Burr was right beside him.

***

_April 30, Saturday_

Angelica’s apartment was of walking distance of the Met. Or, at least, it was close enough that Thomas’s mindless meandering brought him there anyway. He walked over to one of the stone seats, and dropped down onto it. He dug into his pockets for a cigarette, and lit it, blowing smoke up to the skies.

That had been nothing less than what he deserved. Even the look in Angelica’s eyes and the chasm it created between the two of them was still part of what he deserved. In fact, there should be more.

Did it make sense to feel like he had gotten off easily, and yet have that twisting, tearing feeling inside his chest? He didn’t know anymore. He had no answers. He hadn’t had answers for a long time. He tipped his head up and stared blankly at the skies. 

There were very few clouds. James’s messenger bag felt very light without the weight of the papers in it.

His phone was vibrating in his pocket. Thomas fished it out. He pressed ‘answer’ without looking at the screen, taking another drag from his cigarette.

“James,” he greeted.

“Not it,” said another, just as familiar, voice. Lafayette sounded breathless, like he had been running. He was also speaking in French. “Thomas? Are you alright?”

Was he? He wasn’t sure anymore. What were the parameters of ‘alright’ for a man like him who didn’t deserve forgiveness? How much of ‘alright’ was he allowed to have because of all that he had done?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, switching languages easily to match.

“Don’t go all Aaron Burr on me and start obfuscating,” Lafayette huffed. Thomas waited, digging into James’s bag and fishing out his earphones, plugging them in so he wouldn’t have to hold the phone against his ear. “I read the transcript of last Friday’s court session.”

“When have you been that interested in the law?” 

“I’m not,” Lafayette told him seriously, because Thomas’s attempt at levity had failed horribly. “I was reading because I heard that Levi Weeks said something disturbing to you. And then I read it, and it really was very disturbing.”

“Oh,” Thomas blinked. He wanted to laugh. If Lafayette knew what Thomas was, what he had done, he wouldn’t be so worried about him. “That doesn’t really matter. It’s okay.”

“Really,” Lafayette said flatly.

“Yeah.” Thomas closed his eyes. “James nearly broke the audience banister when Weeks was saying that, so I could concentrate on not letting him lose his temper instead of what Weeks said.” He paused. “Honestly, I barely remember what he said.”

There was only one word that stuck in his head. But it wasn’t really important in the long run – he’d heard it being used to describe him before – so there wasn’t a point in telling Lafayette about it.

“Wait,” his friend said. “I’m confused.”

“Which part?”

“The banister thing.”

“There’s a separation between the audience and the rest of the courtroom right in front of the first row,” Thomas explained. “It’s made of very tough wood and James nearly broke it. That made a very loud sound that I could focus on instead of the garbage Weeks is spewing.”

“ _Mon trognon_ ,” Lafayette said, reverting back to a nickname Thomas had gotten him to drop years ago. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Madison is… intense,” Lafayette said, clearly making the effort to put things delicately. “That intensity, coupled with that tendency towards violence you just described to me, can be very dangerous to you.”

Dropping his arm over his eyes, Thomas sighed heavily. “He was violent towards the banister, and angry at Weeks,” he pointed out. “Neither of those were aimed at me.”

“Thomas,” Lafayette insisted.

“Before you even start, he’s not being abusive,” Thomas said. He smiled to himself, because wouldn’t he deserve abuse after all that he had done to Sally? She knew the worst of him, and if she judged that he didn’t deserve forgiveness or even a chance to make up for his deeds, then what did he deserve other than abuse?

But James didn’t deserve to become that. He simply didn’t. And, somehow, he had chosen Thomas. If Thomas couldn’t earn Sally’s forgiveness, then… then he must at least try to earn _that,_ at least.

“That’d be a lot more convincing if you didn’t sound so defensive,” Lafayette drawled.

“I know what abuse looks like,” Thomas said softly. “Not in an abstract sense. Not in an ‘I’ve heard a story from a friend’ sense. I know what it looks like, Lafayette, in ways that will make you despise me if you insist that I tell you. James isn’t abusing me.”

There was a long pause. “I won’t despise you,” his friend said fiercely. “Not ever.”

Thomas thought about the look in Angelica’s eyes; the distance in them. He thought about her snarl and the violence of her hands, twisting in his collar. He remembered the tenderness of her hands on his shoulder as she held the trash bin to his face to throw up into. He laughed, because he was surrounded by too many kind people whose friendships he didn’t deserve.

“Then don’t ask me,” he said.

“Can you tell me why it’s not abuse between Madison and you without my having to ask?” Lafayette’s voice was so soft, so gentle.

“It used to be,” Thomas said. He couldn’t deny it; not to Lafayette, who saw him panicking when he thought he needed Madison’s permission to speak the precise language they were now conversing in. “But it’s not, now. We’re both… both trying to do better now.”

“Why do _you_ have to be the one trying?” Lafayette sounded aghast.

Laughing again, Thomas shook his head even though Lafayette couldn’t see it. “I’m not blameless,” he said; one of the greatest understatements he had ever made. His eyes slid shut. “And if you want more, that’s going to the territory of the question that’ll make you despise me.”

“Okay,” Lafayette said. He took a deep breath. “You’re really alright?”

Honestly, he wasn’t. But the spikes inside his chest had nothing to do with Weeks, nothing to do with James. They were planted there by his own hands, and no other could rip them out. Though he had no idea how to begin, he had to find the ways, the very roots, himself. He knew that. Maybe he had known even before James dropped him off at Angelica’s doorstep.

“I’ll be fine eventually,” he told Lafayette. “Stop fussing over me.”

“This is not fussing,” Lafayette objected. “This is simply worry.”

If only Lafayette knew. Thomas rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes again, sighing heavily. “I’ll be fine,” he repeated. “Trust me on that.”

“That’s a little difficult,” Lafayette said, voice dry. “Can I see you, at least? Tomorrow, for brunch? Without Madison.”

“You’re not being very fair to him,” Thomas pointed out.

“We had a very long conversation the day you took off to Virginia,” Lafayette said, tart. Before Thomas could even ask, he continued, “Which I will tell you about if you agree to meet me tomorrow, Thomas.”

“Fine,” he said. He wanted to see Lafayette anyway. He might not deserve his friendship, but he selfishly wanted to hold onto it anyway. “You drive a hard bargain.”

There was the quiet background sound of a beep. Thomas ignored it, waiting for Lafayette’s response.

“Good,” his old friend said, sounding relieved. “I can come and pick you up? At Sleepy Hollow?”

“No,” Thomas said. “I don’t live there now.” The beeping stopped. “I’m living with James at Irvington, but it’ll be easier if we just meet at Grand Central. You’re still at Washington’s place, yeah?”

Silence. Thomas could practically imagine Lafayette opening and closing his mouth, trying to decide whether to address the fact that Thomas was living with the man Lafayette thought to be his abuser. Thomas waited.

“Grand Central it is. Noon?”

“Sure.” Before Lafayette could hang up, or say his goodbyes, Thomas said, “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Thanks. For calling to check on me.”

“I’m a little late,” Lafayette laughed. “But you’re welcome, Thomas.”

When Lafayette hung up, Thomas listened to the broken dial tone for as long as it lasted, and then the sound of the wind and air muted through the earphones. When his phone started vibrating again, he pressed ‘accept’.

“Front of the Met,” he told James. The missed call previously was surely him, too. “Come pick me up?”

“Of course, darlin’,” James murmured. Thomas stifled the warm shudder that went through him at the endearment, biting his bottom lip. “Did it go well?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Thomas said. When James didn’t say anything else, he simply listened to him breathe. It was more comforting than the air.

James was good to him; good and sweet and true. He looked at Thomas and had never seen anyone else. Everything that Thomas had done wrong with Sally, James hadn’t. It was different; it was very different.

He would tell Lafayette all this tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You really don’t think that Sally would forgive Jefferson, did you? (If you did, I think you overestimate my writing abilities. I can’t do that without making it horribly skeevy and also contradicting everything else I’ve written so far.) 
> 
> Also, a reminder: all narrators are unreliable.


	28. we lower our guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes surrender means winning a new way forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** First scene: discussion of the complexities of the issues of coming out. Second scene: the Dom bottoms while the sub tops (yes, it does happen, and it is very, very fun.) Discussions of trauma related to sexual abuse and death wishes.

_May 1, Sunday_

The click of the electronic cigarette differed from that of a lighter. The cloud of smoke that wafted out of Ben’s lips and lingered, heavy and caressing, around his face was also different. 

“I didn’t know you vaped,” James murmured. He took a deep breath, testing the waters. The air was still clear enough that he didn’t need to ask Ben to stop.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in the daytime,” Ben said, lips curling up around the metal mouthpiece. “We’re even.”

“For some meanings of the word,” James nodded.

Mayday had risen bright and cloudless above their heads, but the umbrella above them blocked out most of the searing light. They were at a café near Washington Heights, one of those famous for its brunches. Ben had already ordered a mojito when James arrived, and now he shifted his vape away from his face, taking the glass and draining the rest of it. He crunched a cube of ice between his teeth, leaving another to sit lonely amidst a few sprigs of mint. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ben muttered. His lips were red from the chill.

Spreading out his hands, James shrugged. “I’m not saying anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can practically feel the waves of disapproval.” Turning his head, Ben took another long drag, sending another cloud of white smoke around his face. “Trust me, this is better than the alternative.”

“Wasn’t I supposed to be the alternative?” James raised an eyebrow.

“Only part of it,” Ben said, lips twitching at the corners. “A person makes for a terrible addiction, especially when he gets all judgmental when you have too many needs.” He flicked a nail over the metal tube of his vape. “This is a replacement for psychiatric drugs.”

“Can you actually get addicted to those?” James asked, genuinely curious.

“Honestly, you can get addicted to anything if you really want to,” Ben shrugged. “Or even when you don’t want to. Funny how these things work, really.”

They were starting to talk in circles. Looking away from Ben, he waved down a waiter. He ordered his own food, and then Ben’s when the younger man gave him another shrug, this time so light as to be nothing more than a shoulder twitch. James watched as he deliberately ignored the waiter’s thin-lipped disapproval at the vapour clouds he was exhaling.

“I didn’t think we were here for food and conversation,” Ben said. He leaned back on his chair, stretching his legs out enough to bump them against James’s ankle. “Weren’t these things supposed to go like business transactions?”

“Some of them,” James nodded. He cocked his head to the side. “If you want this to go like a transaction, then you should tell me. Then we can both sign, and we’ll never see each other again.” 

He tried to keep his voice as soft and gentle as he could, but Ben jerked his head away like he had been slapped anyway. His knuckles turned white around the handle of his electronic cigarette. He took another drag, inhaling long and deep, before he tipped his head back and blew the smoke out into a long trail of white that settled quickly back down around his head. 

Then he switched off his cigarette, and tucked it away.

“Think that’s supposed to be my line to you,” he said, casting a sideways glance to James while looking away. “You have the person you want now, don’t you? You don’t need me as a substitute anymore.” His tone was so casual that it rang out false.

Reaching up, James dragged a hand over his curls. He waited until the waiter put down his drink – simple English breakfast tea brewed from leaves, despite the usual Sunday brunch tradition – before he shook his head. “I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t choose you for your resemblance to him,” he said quietly. “But you mean far more to me than just a substitute.”

“Do I, really?” Ben picked up the empty glass, swirling the melting ice cube around in it.

“Yes,” James said. When Ben offered a raised eyebrow, he returned a small smile. “There are no words suitable for our current relationship with each other, but I’d like to be friends.” He needed distractions; needed people other than Thomas in his life whom he could focus on. And he _did_ like Ben.

Ben threw his head back and laughed. “That’s a hell of a thing to say,” he drawled. Looking away from James again, he waved at a waiter and ordered another mojito. Then he leaned in, elbows on the table, and caught James’s eyes. “Though let me warn you: neither of my parents talk to me much. I have no power to influence them into doing anything.”

“What would I need their influence for?” James asked, genuinely confused. “I have no interest in the media industry, and the Supreme Court is too far away to even consider. Besides, my current job has a tenure of nine more years; I’m not looking for another one.” 

“Just checking,” Ben said. He leaned back on his chair again, eyes narrowed on James. “Is it because of the favour I did you?” James tipped his head to the side. “When I helped you figure something out by giving you words that, by the way, you could’ve found if you were on the Internet more.”

“It’s not because of that,” James said. When Ben continued giving him that suspicious stare, he laughed. “Is it so difficult to believe that I want us to be friends? We have known each other for over a year by now, and there are things about each other that no one else knows.”

“’Course it’s hard,” Ben muttered. He paused when the waiter approached again, handing the man his empty glass and taking his mojito. When his food was set down in front of him, he ignored it aside from picking the long toothpick out of the burger and chewing on it. “There’s nothing I can offer you if the contract’s terminated.”

Spearing a piece of chicken from his salad, James twirled his fork between his fingers. “That’s more of a reason for friendship than a deterrent,” he pointed out. “A wise man once said that relationships born out of selfish reasons don’t last.”

“But ours is a relationship born out of selfish reasons,” Ben pounced, just like James knew he would.

“Was,” he corrected. “Like you said, you offered me words without expecting anything in return.” More than just words, but vulnerability as well; the same kind of rawness that Ben was offering now, no matter how much he was fighting to keep himself inside his shell. “You took the first step. So now I’m taking the second.”

He nudged Ben’s plate forward. “Eat.” 

As if by instinct, Ben picked up his knife and fork. He was halfway through putting food into his mouth when he paused, looking at James again. “This is not because you think someone needs to take care of me, is it?”

“No,” James said. Though Ben certainly seemed like he needed someone to take care of him, especially with the various ways he seemed to be chasing ruin. He wondered how he had missed this before, but the answer was obvious: he had only ever seen Ben in the club, and Ben obviously pulled on another skin before stepping in.

“I’ve never thought I’d have to convince someone to be friends with me,” James remarked once he was sure Ben was eating steadily.

“What can I say, I’m special,” Ben drawled. “Though I’m not very convinced. I still think you’re doing this because you think you owe me a favour or something.”

Chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of rocket leaves, James put down his fork. He sipped at his tea. “Then I should tell you that you didn’t really help,” he said. His lips curved up into a thin smile. “I don’t fit the words you gave me very well.”

“You’ve lost me,” Ben blinked.

“Keep eating,” James urged. When Ben was chewing again, he leaned back on his chair. Suddenly, he had lost his own appetite. “Like you said, I could’ve found those words on the Internet myself,” he said. “So I went hunting. With all I’ve found out…” He shook his head.

“It’s a manner of representation, I believe,” he continued. “Asexuals and demisexuals – the labels that demarcate these identities are not well-accepted. Most of those who do identify themselves by these labels are…young. And, with youth comes a manner of innocence that permeates the labels they have created.”

Running a hand through his hair, Ben sighed heavily. “You know, I’ve seen a lot from you,” he said. “Just be straight with me.”

“They are good people who go through some frankly terrible struggles,” James said, running a finger over the rim of his teacup. “I don’t fit either of those categories.”

Even though he remembered distinctly feeling like he was broken when he was much younger and everyone around him was busying themselves with sexual conquests, that thought had never hit him particularly hard. It just didn’t matter; he had more important things to concern himself with, and he wasn’t surrounded by people who constantly mentioned sex around him, much less teased or otherwise tried to convince him to fuck someone.

Besides, none of that mattered. All those testimonies he had read online were of people who had suffered pain due to what they were, whereas James… James had caused pain instead. He just didn’t fit.

“Wait,” Ben leaned forward, a deep crease in his brow. “You’re saying that you… don’t want to identify as asexual or demisexual because… you don’t fit some kind of moral category?”

“Representation is important,” James repeated.

“So you think you’re going to, what, taint the entire label just by self-identifying with it?”

“My reading is more nuanced than that,” James said dryly. “But essentially, yes.”

“That’s…” Ben ducked his head down. His shoulders shook, and he shoved a fist between his teeth. He grabbed his mojito, tossed half of it back, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “I think all of the public attention you’ve gotten here is getting into your head.”

“What?” James blinked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re used to thinking of your every move not as wholly your own, but also being part of an entire other community,” Ben said. “Can’t blame you for that. You’re black, and in a high position where you’re a minority. Not to mention being the youngest. _And_ the media kind of exploded when you first received said position.”

All those were true. All those were what he – and Thomas, to a lesser extent – had to live with ever since they began their legal careers. Though it wasn’t nearly as bad in New York as it had been in Virginia, it was still a thought process that was engraved deep into both of them.

Still. “Again,” James cocked his head to the side, “what does that have to do with anything?”

Ben shook his head again. He scratched lightly at the condensation on his glass, and he sighed. “Thing about sexuality is that it’s invisible,” he said. “Unless you fucked up like I did and ended up splashing your affairs for everyone to see, or if you actually want some public recognition for your relationship, it’s no one’s business but your own.”

Lifting his head, he fetched James a crooked smile. “Which means that you can actually _choose_ to not be a representative.” He spread his hands out. “You can choose whatever label you want to use for yourself and fuck what the world thinks if you’re not going to tell them about it.”

“That,” James said, “can be constituted as hiding.”

“Sure,” Ben nodded. “Or you call it ‘not letting the world fuck around with what concerns you and only you.’” Something in James’s face must have shown his confusion, because Ben laughed again. “It’s the whole closet rhetoric, isn’t it? Sure, everyone says that it’s good to be out of the closet, because honesty feels good. But at the same time, if you’re not affected by people mislabelling you, or if your life is actually better from it, then why do you have to put the label out somewhere people can see?” 

James sipped on his tea, turning the idea over in his head. The logic was sound, but something was still missing.

Making an impatient noise deep in his throat, Ben leaned forward. “Look at it another way,” he said. “Who knows you to be a Dom?” Thankfully, he kept his voice down.

“People in the Debauchee,” he said. And Thomas. Franklin and Burr, too, but they were part of the former category.

“Exactly,” Ben said, sounding satisfied. “And they only know because it _does_ concern them, right? If only peripherally, because you’re part of the same community.” His lips curved up into a sharp smirk. “Now think about it. Do you need – or even want – a community with… well, asexuals and demisexuals?”

James cocked his head to the side. “Not really,” he said honestly. From what he had read, all he would have in common with them was his possible asexualiy or demisexuality. That wasn’t nearly enough to form a connection.

“Do you actually need people to acknowledge those labels if you use them for yourself?” Ben asked, practically demanded.

This time, James didn’t need to think about it: the parts of him that fitted around those labels were small enough to be ignored on a regular basis; so much so that he didn’t even think about them until this very conversation. “No.”

“Then you have no need to ‘come out’,” he was using those quote marks again, “and so there’s no need for you to be a representative. Just use those labels as you will; the moral standards usually associated with them don’t matter.”

Putting down his cup, James’s lips quirked up very slightly. “Did you learn all this from the Internet?”

Ben barked a laugh. “If only,” he said. “More of… I’m gay, sure, but that matters less than… you know,” he waved a hand, “everything else. That everything else matters to me so much more that ‘gay’ isn’t nearly the first word that pops into my head when I have to describe what I am.”

“Maybe that’s because being so is more accepted than being asexual or demisexual,” James mused.

“Might be it, yeah,” Ben shrugged. He picked up his knife and fork again, and started cutting another piece of the burger. “But you know that my logic is still sound.”

It was. James could feel it deep in his bones. He chewed on another piece of chicken. He made sure that Ben had swallowed his food before he said, “And you still wonder why I want to be friends with you.”

Sure enough, Ben choked. James waved for a glass of water, and pushed it to him when it arrived. Ben gulped half of it down.

“Weren’t you supposed to find that annoying?” Ben coughed. “I was practically preaching to you.”

“I don’t mind,” James said. His smile widened at Ben’s incredulous stare. “It is very rare that I meet someone who tells me something that is both logical and which I have never thought of before.” Come to think of it, the only other person was Thomas. Lafayette, too, in a way. 

Perhaps there was something coded in their genes; they were similar not just in their appearances, but in their own separate brilliances.

Coughing a few more times, Ben wiped his mouth with his forearm. He looked at James for another long moment before he barked a laugh. “You know what? Funnily enough, that actually sounds like a legitimate reason for friendship.”

James didn’t wonder why Ben seemed to have such a deep-seated belief that friendships necessitated benefits. Given all that Ben had told him the last time they met, he didn’t need to. And wasn’t that yet another reason?

Pouring more tea from the pot into his cup, James smiled. “I’m glad,” he said. “I wouldn’t want this to be a wasted trip.”

Ben barked a sharp laugh. He shook his head. “Christ,” he said. 

Before James could ask him for the reason for that curse – of which he could think of many – Ben reached down. He grabbed the bag he’d brought along for today, and took out a folder and a small leather satchel. He pushed both over to James.

“Open that,” he pointed to the satchel, “after we sign.”

“Later,” James said. When Ben blinked at him, he smirked, pointing to Ben’s unfinished burger with a fork. “Finish your food first.”

“I agreed to a friend,” Ben argued. “Not a mother.”

“This is part of friendship,” James pointed out. He might not have many friends, but he did remember many, many occasions when Thomas and Martha had both taken care of him and made sure that he ate during the periods when his immune system failed him. “So eat.”

Grumbling, Ben obeyed. They didn’t do much else than eat for long moments, mostly because James would give the younger man a pointed stare whenever he tried to speak. 

Only when their plates were clean and the waiter had taken them away did James reach for the contract. It was bound beautifully in black leather, officious-looking with nothing on the outside except for a series of twining ropes along the spine – the hallmark of the Debauchee. Every contract made in the club was given the same treatment, and it was a service that was completely free; one of the signs that Wilmot hadn’t opened the club to make a profit.

He took the pen that Ben held out and flipped to the very last page of the contract, where, like every other, the conditions for ending it were written in clear black-and-white. James was so familiar with them by now that he barely skimmed through the words before he signed, and turned the folder back to Ben. Who, he noticed, took a much longer time to read through the conditions.

“Not an expert, but…” he frowned, tapping at a certain line. “Isn’t this a non-disclosure agreement? The same one as when we first signed this thing?”

“It is,” James nodded. He raised an eyebrow. “Why, are you planning to publish a tell-all?”

“No,” Ben laughed. He scrawled his signature where it was supposed to go. “Look, I know that Wilmot runs a tight ship. But I still get surprised when I’m reminded of just _how_ tight.”

There were good reasons for that. Many of which James had become very intimate with in the past few months.

He offered Ben a shrug, and picked up the small satchel. “Can I open this now?”

“Go ahead,” Ben nodded. A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth even as he slipped the contract back into his bag – it always stayed with the sub. “I’d call it a gift, but it’s more that I’m giving something back.”

James knew what it was immediately. Still, he opened it to check, and smiled when his suspicions were confirmed. “Thank you. This will be useful.”

“Should I ask?” Ben drawled.

Pulling the strings tight, James tucked the satchel into a pocket. “No.”

“Figures,” Ben snorted. He waved for the cheque.

When it came, James plucked it out of his hand. “Consider it an overture of friendship,” he said, and slipped his credit card inside and handed the folder back to the waiter before Ben could protest. 

Predictably, Ben did anyway: “I thought you said ‘friend’, not ‘sugar daddy.’” His voice was tart.

Stifling a wince, James shrugged. He didn’t mention that he likely had far more disposable income than Ben did, especially since Ben was likely still paying for the membership fee at the Debauchee. “I’m not paying for anything else,” he said instead.

“You better not,” Ben grumbled. Then he cocked his head. “Have another appointment?”

“Something like that,” James said. He deliberately didn’t check his watch.

Still, Ben picked up on it anyway. He snorted, grabbed his bag and standing up. “You should let me meet him one day,” he informed him. “I know I look like him, but people look very different between pictures and reality.”

That would mean telling Thomas about Ben in the first place, and James hadn’t quite figured out how to do that yet. He gave Ben a smile. “Maybe,” he said. “You need a ride?”

“Thought you weren’t going to pay for anything else?”

“I’m headed downtown,” James pointed out. “So unless you’re heading northwards…”

“Nah,” Ben offered him a grin. “Drop me off at Broadway?”

“Sure,” James said. He didn’t ask Ben why either; he would tell James if he wanted to.

He didn’t want to. But that’s alright as well. There would be plenty of chances, plenty of conversations, in the future.

*

The sun was setting, casting soft reds and oranges over the tops of the trees when James slid the car into his garage. He stepped out of the car, throwing Thomas a smile over his shoulder – the other man had come out in order to open the garage door – before they headed up to the house together.

“Honestly,” Thomas said, “the place in Bushwick still looks the best.”

“It’s barely big enough for one office,” James pointed out. The whole place could fit inside Thomas’s current executive bathroom, actually. It also had mould on the walls where the paper was peeling off, and the floorboards creaked so loudly with every step that James refused to go far inside in fear of crashing through the ceiling of the next floor.

“Well, it’s probably going to just be me working there, so I don’t need that big of a space,” Thomas said. 

As James unlocked the door, he threw Thomas an amused smile. “No plans for expansion?”

Thomas fetched him a flat look in reply. “That’s just completely and utterly defeating the point,” he said. 

“Maybe,” James nodded. He wondered if Thomas understood what the point actually was; realised his reasons for doing this. If this was his way of making reparations for what he had done to Sally Hemings – to seek forgiveness from others when the girl he needed it the most from didn’t give it – James wondered if he knew how high the odds were against him.

He wondered, too, if Thomas understood why he was so drawn to that dingy little place in Bushwick. It was the worst out of the possible office spaces they had looked at today – after James’s meeting with Ben and Thomas’s with his friend Lafayette – and, possibly more importantly, it was in Elric Sands’s neighbourhood.

Likely not on both counts. But James wouldn’t tell him that. Thomas had offered him forgiveness while receiving none himself, while believing himself to be capable of none, and so all James could do was to still treat him as he always had, and be prepared to catch him if he fell.

“I’m going to head off to shower,” Thomas said, stretching his hand up over his arm. He tugged at James’s scarf, still loosely wrapped around his neck. “Been a long day.”

“Wait,” James said. He bit his lip. “Can you… can you keep that on? There’s something I want to show you.”

Thomas turned back, blinking at James over his shoulder. “What is it?” When James didn’t reply, instead heading over to sink on the couch, his eyes narrowed. “Is it something bad?”

“It’s not,” James said. He dug the leather satchel Ben had given him out of his pocket. Pulling the string loose, he turned it over and poured it out.

Twenty-one thin strips of leather, tightly-bound together, fell into his hand. At the sight of them, Thomas stilled.

“Sorry I took so long,” James murmured. “My usual supplier stalled.” 

In fact, the man told him that James’s order was impossible to get at the moment. The leather strips were all treated, cut, and stitched by hand by a very specific craftswoman for softness and durability, and she had been swamped with orders when he had gone to ask last week. James had been very particular about his choice when he first bought it; he had to be, given that he had been planning on putting a man’s entire weight onto twenty-one pieces of leather, each no wider than his little finger.

Pulling out the knot that Ben had made to keep them all together, James drew out six of the strips. He tied the others together and put them back into the satchel. Thomas still hadn’t moved.

“Have you changed your mind?” James asked softly. 

Slowly, Thomas shook his head. He walked to the couch with stumbling steps, sinking down on it heavily. “No, it’s just…” he gave James a weak smile. “Give me a bit of a warning next time?”

“Do you want to tell me why?” He kept his voice just as gentle as before.

“It’s…” Thomas bit his lip. He ducked his head down, and rubbed a hand over his mouth. James carefully slid his eyes away from those plush lips. “It’s stupid, but I just haven’t really… thought about that part of you for a while.” He shrugged. “Or that part of me either.”

“Not stupid,” James said. He wanted, more than anything, to reach out and squeeze Thomas’s shoulder, to offer some comfort. He kept his hands firmly in his lap, twisting the leather between his fingers. “Your memories of either aren’t very good.” 

Understatement.

“Still, it’s a part of you,” Thomas said. He took a deep breath, and straightened. James’s heart ached deep in his chest at the courage in those dark eyes. “Show me?”

“Are you sure?” James asked, because he had to.

Thomas bit his lip. His hand dragged through his hair, and he laughed, a little shakily. “Funny thing is, it has nothing to do with… with what happened,” he said. “If it did, then I’d be having a lot more problems with this.” He tugged on the scarf on his neck. “Or the ties I wear.”

“But that’s mine,” James said quietly. “The ties are mine too.” He hadn’t used his own scarf, or his own ties, when he had raped Thomas.

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “But I can still wear my own stuff. I don’t want to. I just prefer yours.” He offered James a lopsided smile. “And that’s weird, isn’t it? Your stuff around my neck. This,” he waved to the leather, “is going to go around my neck to. Like a…” he faltered.

“Like a collar,” James finished for him quietly.

Nodding, Thomas tugged at the ends of his hair. “Yeah,” he murmured. “And that’s the thing. I want it. I offered it and I want it. But it’s… it’s still scary. Does that make sense?”

“Asking me that is a little strange,” James says dryly. “As you know.”

Slowly, Thomas cocked his head. Then he made a sound like a strangled laugh, shoulders shaking. He tugged at his hair again, brushing the curls away from his face. “Yeah, okay,” he said. Another chuckle burbled out of him, and he pressed his face against the back of the couch. “Okay. Now _that_ was dumb.”

Helplessly, James reached out to him. His hand hovered just an inch about Thomas’s face, and Thomas grabbed it, pulling his close. He nuzzled James’s palm gently, pressing a soft kiss onto the heel. His eyes were so dark when he lifted them.

“Show me?” he asked again.

James’s breath was caught in his throat. He swallowed, but that didn’t stop his hand from trembling as he pulled away from Thomas to reach for the leather strips again. Thomas’s eyes were almost a physical weight.

Still, it was easy. Like falling back into an old habit, picking up the strips and twining them together. Following the tiny creases in the leather from the last times they had been braided and released. It couldn’t be more than five minutes before he had two braids in his hands, both long enough to serve as a necklace.

“They’re beautiful,” Thomas told him when he met those dark, intense eyes again. “Your hands. They’re beautiful.”

There were so many things James could say. _I’m glad_. _Thank you._ Or even, if he was feeling foolish, _Would you like me to touch you?_ But all of them sounded trite even in his own head, so he only nodded instead.

“Wait here,” Thomas said. He stood up from the couch, and headed upstairs. James watched him for a moment before he turned back to the leather. Despite how long he had had the strips, and how long Ben had had them, they still felt butter-soft. Some of the dark brown had deepened into black by sweat. He rubbed his fingers over those spots. They warmed to his skin.

Thomas’s footsteps were loud despite the carpet on the living room. He held out his hand, and James took the silver chain. The intricate links shimmered under the fluorescent light, and the wedding ring at the centre caught the soft yellow glow within its depths. James unhooked it, tucking the ring into his own palm carefully. He measured the chain with the braids; the lengths were almost the same.

When he started to pull them all together, Thomas sat down next to him. His breath syncopated to the movement of James’s hands. He looked almost to be in a trance.

Although James wanted to keep braiding forever, it didn’t take very long. 

“James,” Thomas breathed. His body shuddered all over. As James watched, heart in throat, Thomas slid off the couch. His knees hit the floor. He pulled off the scarf and set it on the table, and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt.

“Do you know what you’re offering?” James asked, voice tremulous.

“Yes,” Thomas said. His head fell backwards, exposing the long column of his throat. “Yours, James.”

And hers, too. Always hers. Martha’s marks were all over Thomas’s bones, indelible. Not even James’s braids could drown them out. He had to learn to share.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he gritted out a breath. His hand brushed lightly over the edge of Thomas’s jaw. He could feel the thrumming pulse even from here. Thomas’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

It felt like a ritual. A sacred, secret thing. He took the two ends of the necklace and wrapped it around Thomas’s neck. Knotted the ends of the braids together and hooked the chain back closed, tucking it between the braids.

Leather darker than Thomas’s skin; silver chain and wedding ring like liquid light, stark amidst the dull darkness. Leather around Thomas’s throat, ring resting above the hollow. James splayed his hand, hovering right above. Cold amidst warmth.

“Mine,” he whispered. When Thomas nodded shakily, he closed his fingers around that beautiful, freely-offered throat. The pulse raced beneath his palm; the beat of butterfly wings. When he squeezed, Thomas made a sound: half a gasp, half a moan.

“Touch me,” Thomas murmured. His eyes were open, black pupils swallowing brown irises. “James.”

He should refuse. He couldn’t.

James dipped his head down. When his lips touched Thomas’s, Thomas made that sound again. It drove straight to James’s chest, strangling the breath out of him. But he ignored the dizziness, ignored the heat rushing south. He kisses Thomas gently, close-mouthed until he felt a shy tongue nudging at his bottom lip.

“Please,” Thomas breathed.

This time, James didn’t resist. He slipped his hand into Thomas’s hair. Held on carefully, like every strand was more precious than gold, as he took Thomas’s mouth. There was no tobacco on his tongue, only Thomas with a faint hint of caramel from the crème brûlée he’d had for dessert.

Red, wet mouth. James closed his eyes. He moved down, kissing Thomas’s throat, feeling the rasp of beard against his jaw, his lips. He tasted sweat and leather and metal; pressed his tongue against the pulse point and tasted its tiny flurries. His teeth scraped against skin.

Another noise. More of a sob. James pulled away even as he felt Thomas’s fingers clench around his arm. Tremors wreaked through his body but he shoved them down, boxed the wrenching need away.

“Yours,” Thomas said. His hand was so warm on the back of James’s neck. His hair smelled faintly of the coconut shampoo he used. “But not yet.”

“Yeah,” James said. He drew back, hands slipping from Thomas’s body. They felt cold. His neck felt cold, too. He kept his eyes away from Thomas until he was sitting next to him again, no longer on his knees.

Their hands linked, fingers tangling together. James gripped tight. His other arm went around Thomas’s waist when Thomas rested his head against his shoulder.

He didn’t say that he was Thomas’s, too; Thomas always knew. And the weight was still far too much; choking, crushing.

Silence would have to do.

***

_May 8, Sunday_

“Charlie’s just an idiot,” Theo huffed. Before Aaron could say anything, his daughter looked up, giving him a Look. “Yes, Daddy, I know it’s not nice to call him that. But he’s really just an idiot.”

She took a bite out of her broccoli, chewing on it with intense vengeance. Opposite him, Hamilton started to choke on his forkful of pasta, hacking with too much noise. Aaron kicked him under the table even as Sarah reached over and smacked him a few times on the back.

“Sometimes people really _are_ idiots,” Hamilton said after he swallowed his mouthful of food. “You just have to do your best to not tell them that to their faces.” Then he added hurriedly, “Or behind their backs,” because he felt Aaron’s stink-eye over Theo’s head.

“Or treat them like they don’t deserve respect just because they’re idiots,” Sarah said, voice far more calm. 

Chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon, Theo put down her fork. She looked up to Aaron, large eyes blinking. “Does that mean that I shouldn’t call him an idiot in front of you guys, too? Because then it’s talking behind his back.”

Aaron reached out and ruffled her soft curls. “Not at all,” he told her, because the last thing he wanted Theo to learn from him was to box up all of her emotions entirely. She had her mother’s vivacity; the he didn’t want her to lose it. “You can tell us anything; you know that.”

“I do, but…” Theo bit her lip, lowering her eyes.

“Talking to us about them isn’t really talking being someone’s back,” Alexander said. “When I said that you shouldn’t call Charlie an idiot to other people, I meant your classmates. Because their behaviours might change around him, or they might tell him what you said and distort your words in their retelling. That’d hurt him badly, and I don’t think he did anything to deserve that.”

“He didn’t,” Theo confirmed. She swung her legs back and forth on her chair.

“With family, it’s different,” Aaron continued. He didn’t look at Hamilton; didn’t tell him that he was as much Theo’s family as the other two adults on the table. Now wasn’t the time. 

“How?” Theo asked, looking genuinely confused.

“Because we’re not going to interact with Charlie very much,” Sarah answered, giving the little girl a quiet smile. “And it’s more important for you to have a place where you can say anything you like rather than to be polite all the time.”

“Why is it so bad to be polite all the time?” Theo blinked. When none of the adults answered her, she heaved an exaggerated sigh. “This is one of the things I’ll only know when I’m older, right?”

“Yes,” Aaron nodded. He could tell her how stifling it felt for a person to always keep his opinion to himself, but he’d rather she keep her innocence a little longer.

“Okay,” she nodded. “Thank you for the explanation, Daddy. And thank you, Aunt Sarah. Thank you, Hammy.”

She had started called Hamilton that a few days ago, but he still hadn’t gotten used to the nickname. Sarah thumped him on the back when he started choking again. Theo continued eating her dinner happily without seeming to notice. Aaron did the same, only sparing Hamilton an amused glance over his daughter’s head.

Once they had all finished eating – with Theo chiding Hamilton a few times to eat more and prodding Sarah and Aaron into backing up her efforts – Theo dragged Hamilton off to read more of _Alice_ to her. The book had been her favourite since Hamilton bought it for her, and it seemed that it would continue being a favourite for a few months.

Sarah collected the dishes, carrying them over to the sink. Aaron stood beside her, drying cloth ready. He waited.

“Is this a permanent thing?” she asked when she had finished soaping up all off the dishes and started to rinse them off. Aaron didn’t need to ask what she was referring to: they could both hear the quiet murmurings of Hamilton and Theo’s voices from the living room.

“That’s up to him,” Aaron said. He stared down at his hands. “I know what you’re going to say. Theo is attached to him, and she’ll be disappointed if he’s gone.”

“Do you want him to stay?” Sarah asked, handing him he first cleaned dish.

Starting to dry it automatically, Aaron hesitated again. “Yes,” he said eventually. He flashed her a smile out of the corner of his eyes. “And he knows that, too. I told him.” Even Hamilton wasn’t as obtuse as to need actual words after Aaron brought him to Theodosia’s grave.

“So why the uncertainty?” Sarah raised an eyebrow. When Aaron shrugged, the other one went up as well. “Have the two of you… you know?” She made an oblique gesture with her hands, sending soap suds flying all over the sink.

Aaron snorted. “You know how little that matters,” he said.

“Not really,” Sarah shook her head. “The two of you have known each other for a long time. Your relationship has been changing for a long time, too. But that’s the one thing that hasn’t happened yet.”

Sighing, Aaron scrubbed a little harder on the next dish that Sarah handed him. “We’ve barely kissed,” he muttered.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Sarah shrugged. “It’s… that kind of intimacy is pretty important. Unless he’s asexual?”

The mere thought had Aaron snorting again. “No, he’s not.”

“Then it’s something that’d be pretty important to him,” Sarah said. “Even if he doesn’t have much of a libido, the complete lack of anything sexual would probably make him think that you’re not actually interested in him.”

“Can we not talk about this,” Aaron grumbled under his breath. He took the next dish from Sarah without looking at her and concentrated very hard on drying it.

“No one else is going to talk to you about this except for me,” Sarah said wryly. “Especially not him. Especially…” She hesitated.

Taking the last dish – Theo’s smaller bowl – from Sarah’s hands, he met her eyes. “Just say it,” he sighed.

“He knows about what happened, doesn’t he?” Sarah asked. “With… with what happened to you in college and also… before.”

“I thought that was obvious,” Aaron drawled. “Why would I tell him about what happened to you if I wasn’t trying to tell him about what happened to me?”

“Needed the confirmation,” Sarah said. She finished cleaning the sink and rested her elbows on the counter, watching him out of the corner of her eyes. Aaron put the dishes back up in their rack.

“For what?” he asked, because he knew she was waiting for him to give her a signal that he was ready and willing to talk about this.

“If he knows, then he’s not going to make the first move,” Sarah said softly. “It might not be that he’s not interested, but he’s too wary about even seeming interested given what happened to you.”

“But I’m not…” he trailed off. Sure, he wasn’t repulsed by sex because of Paterson – Theo wouldn’t exist if he was – but to say that there weren’t scars would be an exaggeration. Especially since Hamilton was a man, and therefore had more landmines to navigate through than Theodosia.

Sarah didn’t speak. Aaron folded the cloth back on top of the oven’s handle, dropping both hands over it. “The problem is,” he said slowly, “he still calls me Burr.” There was still that distance between them, as if Hamilton was afraid to cross the boundary that most people leaped across without even looking.

“I’ve got a novel solution for that,” Sarah said, deadpan. She clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

Aaron stared at her. After a moment, he reached up and dropped his hand on top of hers, squeezing it lightly. “Hey,” he murmured. “You’re back.”

She had always been the one with the sharper wit between the two of them; a wit that had been blunted for years upon years.

Turning away, Sarah slipped her hand out of his grasp. “I’ve always been here,” she said, voice even softer than before. “But yeah. More of me, I guess.”

“I’m glad.”

“Not entirely your efforts,” Sarah told him.

“Even so,” Aaron shrugged. “And I know that, too.” Theo probably had the most to help Sarah find her centre again. Not just her infectious joy and innocence, but also the regular schedule of taking care of a child. Aaron knew his sister well enough that the latter would be a comfort; that was partly why he had invited her to live with them in the first place.

Flashing him a smile, Sarah headed out of the kitchen. Aaron followed her, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He watched Hamilton with Theo and thought about what Sarah had said.

There used to be walls that separated parts of his life. His home, his workplace, and the Debauchee: three different worlds that should have never met, much less touched. Yet Hamilton had come in and shattered all of the walls, walking through three worlds and making himself an indelible part of all of them. Aaron’s universe still managed to stay standing.

At the chapter where Alice met the Red Queen, Theo started to yawn. Aaron plucked her off her perch on Sarah’s lap and carried her up to her bedroom. She brushed her teeth with her eyes closed. He tucked her in.

“Daddy?” Theo asked, head peeking out from her covers.

“Mm?” Aaron turned around.

“Is Hammy going to stay with us from now on?” she asked, a small frown creasing her brows. “Is he going to go away any time soon?”

Walking back to her, Aaron leaned down and placed a gentle kiss onto that tiny furrow. “That’s up to him, sweetheart,” he told his daughter. “If he doesn’t want to go, then he’ll be staying.”

“I hope that he doesn’t want to go,” Theo said. She tugged lightly on Aaron’s sleeve, eyes bright as she looked into his. “Please try hard to make him not want to go, Daddy. I like Hammy.”

Closing his eyes, Aaron buried his nose into her hair, nuzzling her temple lightly. “I’ll do my best,” he promised. He pressed the covers flat with splayed hands. “Now sleep, Theo. You have school tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Theo said. She closed her eyes. Though Aaron wanted to stay to watch her breathing evening out, Theo couldn’t sleep very well when she could feel eyes on her. So he kissed her forehead, and then her nose, and left for the living room.

Hamilton was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to the couch. He had his phone with him, and was tapping on the keys while frowning.

“Where’s Sarah?” Aaron asked, walking over to sit down on the couch.

“She went up to bed,” Hamilton told him without looking away from his phone’s screen. “Ugh, why are people so stupid sometimes?”

“Law of conservation,” Aaron drawled. When Hamilton blinked up to him, confused, he shrugged. “Limited amounts of intelligence to be used per day.”

“That’s not how that law works,” Hamilton pointed out. His lips were twitching. Aaron looked at him for a long moment before he reached down, sliding his fingers into Hamilton’s hair and cupping the back of his neck. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey.” Aaron returned. “Want to go up?”

“Just have to finish an email,” Hamilton said. “You go to bed first? I’ll try to not wake you up when I come in.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Aaron said. When Hamilton blinked, he kept his gaze on those brown eyes, and waited.

“Oh,” Hamilton said eventually. Aaron wasn’t sure what he read from his eyes; he hoped it was accurate, or near to it at least. “Okay. Let’s go, then?”

They headed up the stairs. As they passed by Sarah’s bedroom, Aaron heard quiet, rhythmic clicks – his sister was still awake, probably spending time surfing the Internet. They walked past with quiet steps, and Aaron opened the door to his bedroom. He climbed onto the bed after kicking off his shoes, and stretched out his legs. 

“So, uhm,” Hamilton hovered at the door. He locked it, and took a step forward. “Hi.”

“Take your shoes off and come up here,” Aaron told him, beckoning with a hand. “C’mon.”

“Okay,” Hamilton said. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes constantly darting between the floor and the mattress.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” Aaron said, because he had guessed that nothing put Hamilton more at ease than to have answers he could provide. When Hamilton looked up, tension easing from his shoulders, he knew he was right.

“Last week, you said that you were afraid that you would end up killing all of your friends if you stayed with them long enough,” he said softly. He leaned forward and brushed the back of his fingers over Hamilton’s elbow, soothing as much as he could, before he continued. “But I’m different, aren’t I? Why?”

Scratching the back of his neck, Hamilton flopped down onto the bed on his stomach. “You’re going to laugh at me,” he muttered. Aaron raised an eyebrow, and he sighed. “Okay, uh… so it’s like… I thought about it, once or twice. People around me always end up dead, or really hurt at best, but then there’s you and you’re…” He chewed on his lip.

“Just say it,” Aaron sighed.

“I can’t help but think that, even if death comes for you, you’ll stare him down and chase him away.” At Aaron’s uncomprehending stare, he sighed, dragged a hand through his hair and tossing the hair tie to the nightstand. “You’re always so composed, you know? It’s like nothing I do can ever affect you.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Aaron said, very slowly, “you affect me quite a great deal.”

“Well, yeah,” Hamilton shrugged. “But there’s affected and there’s _affected_.” He flapped his hands in the air. “Like, you’d be beating the shit out of me but there’s a part of you that’s still completely still, completely untouched. It pissed the hell out of me, but it’s also… kind of reassuring, if that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Aaron said honestly.

“With people it’s like…” he chewed on his lip. “With John, he has a shell, you know? But that shell has cracks, and he’s vulnerable in those cracks. With Ms… with Eliza,” he corrected himself before Aaron could, “she was so open everywhere. My fuck-ups managed to hit them all in the soft spots where it really _hurt_ them. With you, you would get angry. You’d hit me, sometimes, and then you’d walk away. When you come back, it’s like nothing’s happened. Like I haven’t really… I haven’t really hurt you.”

“Do you _want_ to?” Aaron asked.

“Hell to the no,” Hamilton answered immediately. “I mean, before, I was trying really hard even though I was trying not to at the same time. But now… No. I know you can deal with it, but…” He rubbed the back of his neck, and gave Aaron a half-shy smile from beneath his eyelids. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

That was obvious. That, Aaron knew, could be argued as nothing but pure decency. Yet he felt himself growing warm all over, and ducked his head down in case his dark skin couldn’t hide the rising flush.

“Yeah,” Hamilton said. “I don’t know if that’s a good answer or not, but… yeah.”

“Good answer,” Aaron said. He cleared his throat. “It’s a good answer. Another question?”

“Okay.”

“Why do you still call me ‘Burr’?”

Hamilton stared at him. “Hah, yeah, that’s weird,” he said. He frowned, gears moving so obviously in his head that Aaron could practically hear them creak. “I… Oh. Uh. It’s because you told me to do it?”

“What?” Aaron blinked.

“That… that time in the office,” Hamilton said, waving a hand vaguely in the air. Aaron knew what he was talking about: the very first time both of them lost control; that day with sunlight pouring in through the windows to illuminate the sight of Hamilton on his knees. “You asked me to do it. ‘Master’ when we’re doing a scene, and ‘Burr’ everywhere else.”

“And you’re still obeying that,” Aaron stated flatly.

Scratching the sheets with a nail, Hamilton gave a shrug so casual that the effort looked painful. “Yeah,” he muttered. “No reason to disobey. Especially since you still call me ‘Hamilton’, too.”

“I call you ‘Hamilton’ because you call me ‘Burr’,” Aaron pointed out. When Hamilton looked up to give him a bug-eyed stare, he shrugged. “I’m not prone to assuming intimacy.”

“Right,” Hamilton said. He flopped down face-first onto the mattress. “So,” he said, voice muffled by cloth, “we’ve basically stuck to calling each other by our last names because, what, we’ve been waiting for each other to make the first step?”

Aaron considered that. “Basically,” he said. He met Hamilton’s eyes, and Hamilton burst out laughing. Aaron’s lips twitched involuntarily at the sound.

“Okay, okay, so,” Hamilton gasped out through his cackling – which he was thankfully muffling on the sheets. He crawled up the bed until he was half on top of Aaron, legs spread around Aaron’s thighs and knees on the mattress.

When Hamilton leaned in, Aaron tilted his head. Their mouths met in a soft kiss, lips a steady, yielding pressure against each other’s. Then Aaron cupped the back of Hamilton’s neck, drawing him closer, and Hamilton moaned as he opened his mouth, deepening the kiss.

“Hey,” Hamilton said when they drew back from each other to breathe. He was grinning wide enough for the expression to be manic. “My name is Alexander. Nice to meet you.”

Snorting, Aaron leaned forward, knocking his forehead against Alexander’s for a brief moment. “I’m Aaron. Hi.”

“Hi, Aaron,” Alexander intoned. Before Aaron could retaliate against that terrible joke, Alexander’s mouth was on his again. Though it shouldn’t be possible, the kiss was even sweeter this time, with a hint of salt and paprika from the pasta dinner lingering on Alexander’s tongue.

This time, when they drew back, Alexander’s eyes were closed. He was breathing hard and ragged. His head fell onto Aaron’s shoulder. “God,” he murmured. “God. I love you.”

Aaron’s hand was around his waist – having migrated there sometime as they were kissing – and he felt the precise moment when Alexander realised what he said. He tightened his grip and slipped his other hand down to Alexander’s other side, and he flipped them around until Alexander was pinned to the bed.

“Yeah,” he said, putting a finger on Alexander’s lips and looking into his wide, dark eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Don’t try to take it back.”

Slowly, Alexander relaxed. He turned his head to press a kiss onto Aaron’s knuckles, and laughed. “Should’ve known you to be the Han Solo type,” he said. “Does that mean I’m Princess Leia? Do you have a gold bikini stowed away somewhere?”

“Hush,” Aaron said, and kissed him again Alexander laughed into his mouth, a little shaky, body tremulous, but Aaron just kept kissing him, kept sliding their lips and tongues together until he could feel the tension fade from Alexander’s body.

Maybe there should be more acknowledgment. Maybe he should say it back. But Aaron knew long ago that words were water, fitting into any container that they were poured into without any real forms of their own. Actions were solid; actions were real. He wouldn’t tell Alexander that he loved him; he would save him instead. And he would…

Pulling back, he looked into Alexander’s eyes. The brown irises were almost swallowed up entirely, and Alexander’s mouth was red. Aaron traced his thumb over it. “I’ve been thinking about something,” he said.

“Yeah?” Alexander panted out. He licked his lips, and tried to press his hips deeper into the mattress, away from Aaron. Aaron reached down, and closed his hand around the hard cock he could feel tenting Alexander’s jeans.

The immediate reaction was beautiful: Alexander’s back arched, and his eyes rolled back. His teeth sank down into his lip and his breath stuttered in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing with the trapped sound of a scream.

“Good boy,” Aaron murmured, stroking his fingers through Alexander’s hair. “You can be quiet, after all.”

“Have to be,” Alexander said. He slumped back down, gasping. His hips trembled with the effort to not raise them. “Master, please, can you…”

“What do you want?” Aaron asked.

“Anything,” Alexander said. His eyes were wide and bright and so sweetly sincere. “Anything you’d give me. Even if it’s nothing.”

Here, the final piece: given freely without need for questions, much less force. Aaron carded his hand through Alexander’s hair again.

“Do you want to fuck me?” he asked.

Alexander stilled entirely. He stared up to Aaron, lips parted. Aaron squeezed the erection beneath his hand again. He kept his eyes on Alexander even as he shifted position, swinging his legs until he was straddling Alexander’s hips. He rocked forward, and rubbed his own hard cock over Alexander’s thigh. “Well?”

“Yes,” Alexander said. “Yes, Master. I don’t know if I can keep quiet enough, Master, but yes.”

Fingers sliding into Alexander’s hair again, Aaron tipped his head up. “You can call me Aaron,” he said, and smiled. “If you want.”

“Aaron,” Alexander said. The name turned filthy in his mouth, caressed with tongue and throat. “Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. _Yes_.”

“Alright,” Aaron said. “Stay here.”

He sat up, and moved off the bed. It was a little difficult when his cock was throbbing and hard, but he managed. He went to one of the picture frames and lifted it up, revealing the safe. Turning his head, he gave Alexander a small smirk.

“Where _did_ you think I keep them?” he drawled.

“No idea,” Alexander said. His eyes widened even further at the sight of the collar, chain, and gag that Aaron took out of the safe. “Didn’t think about it.”

“The Debauchee doesn’t allow storage,” Aaron informed him. Not even for Wilmot’s favourites. 

Dismissing the thought of that man, Aaron locked the safe. The picture frame could be dealt with later. He checked the lock on his bedroom door, and then dropped the equipment onto the mattress and leaned over Alexander, who still hadn’t moved from his previous position.

“Is this okay?” he asked. “I’ll have to put all these on you. You’re not going to make a sound.”

Even though the explanation was only for the gag, Alexander nodded. His eyes showed that he understood why the collar and chain were absolutely necessary. Aaron took a deep breath, and let it out through his teeth.

“Do you remember your safe gesture?”

Slowly, Alexander reached out. His hand splayed upon Aaron’s chest. Two quick taps, a pause, and then a slower one. His lips parted. Aaron took the gag, and placed it between his teeth. Alexander bit down immediately, eyes falling half-shut. His white teeth and red lips were a sharp contrast against the black ball of the gag. Aaron let out a shuddering breath.

“Good boy,” he murmured again, brushing the back of his hand over Alexander’s cheek. Then, keeping their gazes locked, Aaron picked up the collar. Alexander tipped his head back without needing to be asked, and Aaron clicked the hinges closed. The chain hooked onto the attached padlock, and the key returned to Alexander’s wrist.

“Your hands will be free the entire time,” he told his boy. “If you want at any time to stop, use the safe gesture. If you feel like you can’t deal with it, then you unlock this,” he tapped the padlock. “Give me a nod if you agree.”

Alexander nodded. Then he tipped his head down and jerked his chin forward, motioning to Aaron. Aaron closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. No sub had asked him this before.

“If I can’t deal with it, then I’ll stop entirely,” Aaron said. He paused, and moved off of Alexander. He went to the safe again and took out the lube and a couple of condoms. He also brought back a small pocket knife. Then he climbed back onto the bed.

“Now we have everything we need,” he said, putting the lube on the bed and slipping out the knife. “If I get off the bed, that’s _my_ safe gesture. It means that it’s over, and,” he breathed out through his teeth, “we’ll try again another day.”

He waited until Alexander nodded. Then he took the knife, holding it with one hand and Alexander’s collar with another. The cloth gave way easily under the blade, but Alexander didn’t flinch. He simply held very, very still until Aaron tugged on his arms, and he stretched them out until the sleeves could be slipped off him.

It would be easy to tie Alexander’s arms back with the remnants of his T-shirt. Aaron shelved that thought for another time. He put the knife carefully on the nightstand, blade folded back in.

Another breath. He unbuttoned Alexander’s jeans, nudging his boy to lift his hips. He pulled the denim off along with the underwear until Alexander’s skin was fully bared to his sight. His cock rose between his closed legs, heavy and dark, and Aaron wrapped his hand around it. He watched as Alexander’s hips jerked, and he made a muffled, strangled sound through his throat.

“The gag will keep most noises in,” Aaron continued, stroking slowly. “But you have to control yourself, Alexander. Don’t wake anyone, okay?”

Slowly, Alexander nodded. His teeth sank deeper into the ball of the gag, and his jaw twitched. He kept rocking his hips upwards, so Aaron leaned down. He licked a stripe from the base of Alexander’s cock upwards, swirling his tongue around the tip. There was no sound.

“So good,” he breathed. “You’re being so good for me.” He nudged at the prominent vein with a nail. Alexander’s cock twitched hard in his fist.

He wasn’t on his knees. But he hadn’t always been on his knees. Not even the collar could be seen if he allowed his eyes to fall half-shut. The taste was familiar, and so was the scent – salt and bitterness, heavy on his tongue. But it wasn’t the same. The demons stayed safely locked up in their closet.

“Alright,” Aaron breathed, straightening back up. “Alright. Now I want you to help me take off my clothes.”

Alexander’s hands hovered in the air. Aaron took them, fingers around the thin wrists, and drew them to his belt. He pulled his own shirt off as Alexander fumbled with the buckle, metal clacking together. He didn’t help, merely waited, shirt dangling off his fingers. Finally, the belt was conquered, and Alexander’s fingers trembled as he hooked them over the hem of the jeans.

“Underwear,” Aaron reminded. Alexander nodded, and shifted his fingers. As Aaron moved his hips, he pulled them down. Those clothes went off to the side, too, and Aaron tossed the shirt after them. They would be horribly wrinkled tomorrow, but it was Aaron’s turn to do the laundry anyway.

He slid his hand into Alexander’s hair, and closed his other one around a thin wrist again. He held onto the strands before he shifted Alexander’s hand from where it twitched towards Aaron’s cock. “Not there,” he murmured. To the side, and then further down. Over the bottle of lube. “Slick your fingers up, boy.”

Eyes going wide, Alexander stilled. He chewed on the gag. Aaron nodded, encouraging. He tried to keep his own nervousness off his face – Alexander said that he was always composed, always in control, and so he would hold onto that faith and not fail it. Slowly, Alexander flipped open the bottle. Liquid spilled a little over the sheets, but Aaron ignored that and focused on bringing Alexander’s now-wet fingers closer.

Between his own legs, and then behind.

“One first,” he instructed. “Just one. Be careful.”

His head fell onto Alexander’s shoulder at the soft, tentative brush of fingertips over his entrance. He bit his lip. But when Alexander pushed in, just the barest bit, his hand wrapped around the chain anyway, clenching without pulling. “Go on,” he gritted out, and closed his eyes. “I’m not saying no. It’s just been a long time.”

Not since he’d had to. Not since he could choose not to. But he wanted this; wanted Alexander inside him. His teeth grazed Alexander’s shoulder, the barest touch, and his boy’s body jerked around him, his finger inside him, brushing against something inside Aaron that he hadn’t allowed himself to think about in years.

At the same time he gasped, he lost control of his hand. Alexander lurched forward, pulled by the chain. His finger remained inside Aaron, the others scrabbling at his skin even as the other hand closed around a hip, trying to steady himself. He made a sound like a horrified squeak.

Slowly, Aaron lifted his head. Alexander was staring at him again, apology written all over his face, and Aaron couldn’t help but laugh. He ran his mouth over Alexander’s jaw, travelling down to his neck, letting his stuttering breaths warm the skin.

“It’s okay,” he breathed. “Wasn’t your fault. Was mine.” He lifted his head, and tugged on the chain slightly. “Do you want me to take this off?”

Alexander blinked. He shook his head, then nodded. Then he did it again, in reverse order. His hand spasmed around Aaron’s hip. He lifted his shoulders, and then dropped them back down.

“You like the chain, but you’re nervous about what you’d do?” Aaron guessed. “Especially when you’re stretching me open?”

He didn’t need Alexander’s rapid nods to know he was right. Reaching down, he tugged the ribbon loose, and unlocked the chain. It dropped onto their joined laps, and he shoved it onto the mattress. “We’ll put it back when your cock is inside me,” he assured, and wasn’t sure if Alexander’s hard shudder was because of what he actually meant, or the images of the near future those words conjured in Alexander’s head.

Didn’t matter. He hooked his fingers into the space in the padlock, and used that to tug Alexander forward. This time, he ran his teeth deliberately over Alexander’s jaw, biting down very, very lightly.

“Two fingers,” he whispered. He closed his eyes when he felt Alexander pull out, but his teeth sank into skin and flesh automatically at the stretching burn. Alexander whined through his gag, his cock twitching, and Aaron closed his thumb and index finger around the base.

“Three,” he said. When Alexander hesitated, thumb rubbing over the rim of Aaron’s hole, he bit down again on the same spot. “Don’t start disobeying now, boy,” he said when he relaxed his jaw again. “You’re being so good.” 

The burn grew stronger, a snaking thing that spread through his spine and twisted his stomach. Aaron gasped, fingers clawing at Alexander’s collar and shoulder, skittering over metal and skin both. Alexander’s hand squeezed his hip again, a reassuring pressure, before he cockscrewed his fingers and shoved them hard against the spot inside.

Aaron threw his head back, mouth falling open. Pleasure felt like a gunshot, punching him straight in the chest, knocking all of the air out. His nails dug into the curve of Alexander’s shoulder, thumb digging into the soft flesh of his armpit. Alexander didn’t need words to know now: he fucked Aaron steadily with three fingers, the lube making wet, obscene sounds that echoed around them. He brushed Aaron’s prostate with every other thrust, making him shudder and shake and feel like he was going to fall apart.

There were no ghosts. The closet door was still locked. But it was starting to rattle. Aaron pressed his eyes tightly shut, burying his face into Alexander’s neck. His teeth scraped over the skin above the collar even as he shoved his jaw against the metal. It was warmed by Alexander’s body, but still unyielding, and he slipped his tongue beneath it even as Alexander’s fingers stuttered inside him.

“So good,” Aaron managed through a strangling throat. “You’re being so good to me, boy.”

When Alexander whined, the sound shut up the ghosts. Aaron splayed his hand over the collar, turning his head until he was biting the thin skin stretched over the Adam’s apple. The fingers inside him slowed, just a little, and continued in that same steady pace when he nodded.

Even when Aaron didn’t speak, even when he couldn’t see his eyes, Alexander could understand.

Lifting his head up, he rasped out, “Enough.” The fingers slipped out of him, and Alexander’s hand squeezed his hip again when he winced. Aaron kissed the corner of his mouth for his effort. 

Then he picked up the chain and locked it back in place. Keeping his eyes on Alexander, he moved down his body, stopping when Alexander’s cock was right in front of his face. “Try not to move,” he warned. Then he plucked a condom off where he dropped it, tearing off the foil with his teeth. Holding it in his mouth, he ducked his head down.

It had been an even longer time since he had tried this. He had never done this because he wanted to. But it was easy: holding onto Alexander’s hips, closing his mouth around his cock, and sliding the condom on him using his mouth alone. Latex prodded at the back of his throat, making the closet door shake again. But Alexander’s hands were clenched around the sheets instead of touching him, so that was okay.

“Do you like that?” Aaron asked once he straightened again. Alexander nodded so hard that his neck looked in danger of breaking, and Aaron couldn’t help but laugh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He awarded his boy with a scrape of teeth over his jaw and a tiny nip on the skin below his ear. 

Wrapping the chain around his hand again, he tugged Alexander forward. “I want you to push me onto the bed,” he said. “Take me while I’m flat on my back and you’re above me.”

He didn’t say why. Looking into Alexander’s darkening eyes and the understanding blooming in them, he knew he didn’t need to. He tried to not steel himself. He failed.

But when Alexander’s hands closed around his shoulders, he was surprised anyway. His back hit the bed. Instinctively, he gripped onto the chain, but it felt like it was slipping from his grasp. He could hear the voices of those locked within the closet, coming nearer and nearer—

Alexander’s hand around his. Alexander’s hand, bringing his fingers to the collar, and closing around it. Alexander hovering above him, completely still, his other hand gripped around the pillow. Aaron breathed through his teeth. He nodded, and lifted his hips. He let Alexander put the pillow beneath them, and tugged him forward until Alexander’s arms came down around his head.

They were of an equal height and build. But Alexander looked bigger anyway. Aaron gripped tighter onto the chain, holding onto it with both hands now. The links dug into his flesh but it was a better alternative than nightmares. 

Making a soft, questioning sound, Alexander cocked his head. Aaron nodded. “Yeah,” he said, and raised his knee, pressing it against Alexander’s sternum. “I can still get off the bed. It’s okay.”

Slowly, his boy nodded. His hands were tentative as he closed them around Aaron’s hip. “It’s okay,” Aaron said again. Those hands squeezed again, the pressure the same as before, and Aaron focused on it as Alexander guided himself inside him.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathed. His head dropped back. Alexander stopped. Aaron didn’t open his eyes, only tugged on the chain, and Alexander slid in another couple of inches. Another tug, harder this time, and Alexander _oofed_ through the gag, hips snapping forward as he thrust all the way in.

Entirely by instinct, Aaron let go of the chain. He reached out behind Alexander’s head, loosening the ties of the gag. He flung the thing off to the side and took Alexander’s face with both hands, crushing their mouths together.

“Aaron,” Alexander said, words muffled. “Aaron, Aaron, oh God, you feel so good. You feel so good around me. Thank you. You feel so good.”

“Need to kiss you,” Aaron murmured. “That’s why I took off the gag.”

They kissed messily, smearing spit on lips and skin both. Aaron didn’t care. Alexander’s cock was a solid weight inside him, just barely skimming over the spot, and it was good. The pleasure was a warm bubble underneath his skin, filling him up just like Alexander was, spreading upwards all the way until he could practically feel Alexander at the back of his throat. He had no words for how it felt except for _good_.

It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t nearly the same.

He grabbed for the chain, blindly. Alexander’s hand brushed his as he passed it to him, held out his submission easily, just like that. Aaron clenched around the links, and kissed him again.

“Move for me,” he said. His fingertips skimmed over Alexander’s cheek. “You don’t have to hold back. Fuck me.”

Alexander stilled. Then he groaned, muffling the sound in Aaron’s neck. He pulled back. When he thrust in again, the head of his cock brushed Aaron’s prostate, and he wasn’t the only one trying to muffle the sounds that tried to wrestle out of his throat.

His boy fucked him while he held onto his chain. Slammed into him hard enough to make the bed shake. Too loud, far too loud, but Aaron couldn’t even think about anything else outside of this room right now. 

Their mouths sealed together again, but it wasn’t a kiss, just exchanging breaths and moans and strangled whispers of their names. It was more intimate than a kiss.

“Master,” Alexander gasped into his jaw. “Master. Aaron. May I touch you? Please, let me touch you?”

“Yes,” Aaron said. “Yes. God, yes.”

Fingers callused by holding a pen, tips flattened by too much typing. Longer and wider than Aaron’s own. Aaron felt every single inch, every single difference, as Alexander wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking him in tandem with his thrusts. Metal clinked against metal as Aaron threw his arm around Alexander’s neck, pulling him even closer.

“I’m close,” Alexander muttered. “I’m close. May I come, Master? Aaron. May I come?”

“Inside me, boy” Aaron said, barely even cognizant of the words coming out of his mouth anymore. “Come inside me, Alexander.”

Alexander made a strangled sound. His hips snapped harder, faster, rhythm going erratic. Then he pushed in deep, filling Aaron completely, and Aaron could feel the heat of his come as it filled the condom.

Then Alexander pulled out of him. The chain slid through Aaron’s slack fingers as he moved down.

“Let me use my mouth and my fingers on you,” Alexander pleaded. “Please? May I make you come?”

This time, Aaron had run out of words. He nodded. He shoved his wrist into his own mouth when he felt the heat of Alexander’s wrap around his cock. He bit down hard when three fingers thrust inside him, the angle immediately accurate. His hips jerked upwards, and his body twisted.

“Hand,” he gasped out. He was close, he was very close. “Give me your hand, boy.”

Without looking, he grabbed the hand Alexander offered. He shoved the heel of the palm between his teeth, and bit down hard enough to taste blood just as he came. 

Even through the sudden, blinding white, he could feel Alexander’s yell trembling again his thigh.

He slumped back hard on to the bed, one arm still over his face. Alexander’s wrist was still in the other, so he pulled. His boy scrambled up to him, and Aaron turned his head and kissed him wherever he could reach: lips and cheek and jaw, and even a few nuzzles over the nose.

His entire body ached and he knew that he would be sore tomorrow from how hard Alexander had fucked him. But there were a new set of chains over the closet door, chains the shape of the one lying flat on his chest, and that was more important than physical pain.

Opening his eyes, he cupped Alexander’s cheek. “Thank you,” he said. “You have no idea…” He trailed his head.

Nuzzling his hand, Alexander smiled. “Cliché as it sounds, it’s an honour,” he said. “It really was, Aaron. Thank you so much.” His eyes were star-bright. Aaron had to kiss him again.

They had barely pulled apart to breathe when there was a knock on the door. Alexander jerked, eyes going wide. They exchanged a glance. Inanely, Aaron remembered Alexander’s first visit. He really hoped that it wasn’t Theo at the door.

Another knock. Alexander made a frantic grab for the covers just as Aaron leapt off the bed, reaching for his jeans. He found a pair and pulled them on, buttoning it and ignoring the twisting ache inside him. His hand closed around the doorknob just as another knock came.

Sarah stood on the other side. Aaron slumped against the doorframe. “Oh, thank God,” he said.

“God has nothing to do with it,” Sarah said, sounding incredibly amused. “Please thank me. I just spent the last fifteen minutes convincing Theo that a monster wasn’t trying to eat ‘Daddy and Hammy’.” Her fingers made quote marks in the air. “I just barely managed to send her to bed.”

“We were trying to not be loud,” Alexander protested. His head was peeking out from beneath the covers. His hair was a complete dishevelled mess.

As Sarah burst out laughing, covering her mouth behind her hand, Aaron groaned. He hit his head against the door a couple of times.

”Get a new bed,” Sarah advised. She reached for his shoulder, and then drew back. “Okay, seriously, I’m going. Please don’t make me wash any of the clothes tomorrow.”

“I’m doing it,” Aaron said. 

“And I’ll help,” Alexander piped up from behind him.

Nodding, Sarah dragged her hand over her face. Her lips twitched. She leaned in and said, in a stage whisper definitely loud enough for Alexander to hear, “You have come all over your chest, darling brother.”

Aaron looked down. In his post-orgasmic haze and the later surprise, he had completely forgotten about that. He hit his head against the door again, grinding his forehead against the wood. “I owe you one,” he told Sarah.

“You really do,” Sarah said. She laughed again, a single sharp giggle that she failed to stifle with the back of her hand, before she turned around. Aaron watched her step into her bedroom before he closed the door and slumped against it.

“Sorry,” Alexander said. Before Aaron could turn back to ask him what he was apologising for, Alexander ducked his head under the covers. The cloth didn’t do a very good job of muffling his howling laughter.

Rolling his eyes, Aaron locked the door again. He walked back to the bed, shucking the jeans on the way – oh, they were Alexander’s – and yanked down the covers. Alexander peered at him from beneath the tangled curtain of his hair, and Aaron grabbed the chain, tugged him up, and kissed him again.

“Tomorrow, you’re going to help me explain to Theo that we weren’t being eaten by monsters,” he said against Alexander’s lips. “And then we’re going to get a new bed.” 

“It’s Monday,” Alexander protested. “There’s work.”

“Shops are still open after six,” Aaron said. He shook his head, pulling the covers further away to hunt for the key. 

“Again, work,” Alexander said. He held out the key.

Sighing, Aaron unlocked the chain. He pulled the collar open, rubbing his fingers over the reddened skin. Alexander’s eyes slipped close, and he made a sound like a soft purr. Aaron patted his hair.

“We’re getting out at six,” he told his boy. “Keep that in mind.”

He ignored Alexander’s pout, fishing the ball gag out of the mass of covers and sheets. Heading to the bathroom, he washed and dried it – cleaning himself up as well – before he shoved it along with the collar, chain, and bottle of lube back into the safe. Alexander helped him put the picture frame back in place. He didn’t have a stitch of clothing on. Aaron raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve seen this for months,” Alexander pointed out, waving a hand down his body. “Besides, you’re naked too.”

Opening his mouth, Aaron closed it again when he remembered something. “Where’s the used condom?” he narrowed his eyes.

“Shit,” Alexander said. He practically flung himself back onto the bed, pulling the covers off entirely. “Shit,” he swore again. “Fuck.”

Leaning over Alexander’s shoulder, Aaron turned his head. He bit down on the curve to hide his laughter, because of _course_ Alexander would forget to tie the condom and now there was a massive wet patch on the bed. 

“You’re getting up early with me to do the laundry tomorrow,” Aaron said once he had unlatched his jaw from Alexander’s skin. He rubbed the spot – it would bruise beautifully tomorrow. “And you’re sleeping on the wet spot.”

“That’s not fair,” Alexander complained. His voice was trembling. “You biting me like that while saying all these unsexy things.”

Pinching Alexander hard on the inside of the elbow, Aaron picked up the used condom. He went to the bathroom, tossed it into the trash, and grabbed a wet cloth. Alexander was still standing there, soft tremors wreaking through his body, so Aaron put down the cloth and shoved him onto the bed. 

He climbed over him. When Alexander tried to pout, he raised an eyebrow. “You live in this house,” he said, continuing the conversation from before like there was no lapse. “You behave like a civilised human being. Including regular chores.”

“I’m moving back to my apartment,” Alexander grumbled, picking up the thread easily. His body calmed. When Aaron continued to stare at him, he sighed overdramatically. “Okay, so I’m not.”

They would have to talk about what they were going to do with Alexander’s apartment. Or, rather, what Alexander would do with it. But that was for tomorrow. Right now, Aaron rolled Alexander bodily over until he was over the wet patch. Then he reached for the cloth, rubbing it over the skin where he had bitten. Looking into Alexander’s eyes, he moved down and cleaned his soft cock.

“Fuck, that’s _cold_ ,” Alexander hissed.

“Stop whining,” Aaron sighed. He tossed the cloth over to the nightstand, and dropped down to lie on top of Alexander. His boy shifted a little beside him, clearly uncomfortable, but he wrapped an arm around Aaron’s waist anyway.

“Can’t we, like, move bed-shopping until Wednesday?” he asked. “I don’t have a lot of meetings on Wednesday, so I can probably finish work at six…”

“Ask me tomorrow,” Aaron said. He yawned. Alexander was warm, and he wasn’t so overly muscular that he was a rock on lie upon, so it was comfortable. “Now stop thinking about work. Go to sleep.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Alexander said.

Digging a nail into Alexander’s armpit, Aaron twisted it. Slightly, almost absentmindedly. “Go to _sleep_ ,” he repeated.

Alexander made an incoherent sound. He stopped talking. Aaron closed his eyes. He tapped his fingers rhythmically over Alexander’s ribs until he felt them start to rise and fall accordingly.

They slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madison and Ben’s entire conversation about labels and representation and coming out of the closet comes directly from my own experiences. Ben is acting kind of like my mouthpiece here.
> 
> As Madison and Jefferson already had the dramatics with names, Hamilton and Burr get the funnier option. Also references to Chapter 5 in Chapter 28. Because I do shit like that. And it’s also more IC for those two.
> 
> The scene between Hamilton and Burr wasn’t supposed to be that funny and fluffy towards the end. It happened like this because a) my sense of humour is atrocious, and b) there are other people in the house and therefore it makes logic. They are good reasons.


	29. see you on the other side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Nothing but the standard mindscrew warning.

_May 9, Monday_

His latest case wasn’t nearly as exciting as the one that had just finished – a pharmaceutical assistant caught practically red-handed stealing psychiatric drugs to sell on the Dark Web – but there were tangles to be unravelled anyway. Alexander had his case file open in his lap and his tongue between his teeth as he read through the testimonies again, and he was so absorbed in his work that it took him a few moments to realise that his phone was ringing.

Not his mobile. His work phone. He stared at it blankly for a moment before scrambling to grab it, nearly upending the file and spilling paper all over the floor in the process.

“Uh, hi,” he said, just slightly breathless. “This is Alexander Hamilton.”

“Yes,” Washington’s voice came down to the line. “Are you busy? Do you have, say, half an hour right now?”

Alexander stared at his desk. There was the current case he was working on, and two more with trials coming up very soon and which he had put off in the last few weeks because of everything that was happening, and the new files that Herc had sent over regarding the ongoing investigations on the international human trafficking ring that was becoming less of conjecture than reality with every new piece of information… He checked the time – eleven in the morning. He should probably still be able to get them all done even if he spared half an hour.

“Sure,” he told Washington. “I can come over. Do you want me to come over?”

“It’s not a very formal meeting,” Washington told him. “And I’m the only one here.” Then he hung up.

So it probably wasn’t a new client, then. Alexander rubbed the back of his neck, and then sorted out the papers in the case file before dropping the entire heavy thing on the desk. He put the notebook he was using to take notes, too – there was so much medical jargon that he had to write down the translations to common English – and dragged his hand a couple of times over his hair. Then he headed out and took the lift upstairs to Washington’s office, retying his usual ponytail again.

Honestly, he should just cut the whole thing off. It seemed like he spent half of his life trying to make sure that his hair looked decent on any given occasion.

“You asked to see me, sir?” he asked when Washington allowed him to enter the office.

Washington looked up from where he was flipping through a thick, leather-bound folder. “Sit down, Hamilton,” he said. “Give me a moment.”

Alexander shifted from one foot to the other.

“Sit down,” Washington said without looking at him. Alexander sat down. He tried to not play with the arm of the chair, and failed.

Snapping the file shut, Washington looked up to him. After a moment, he opened up the ring binder of the file, and took out one of the plastic folders. He slid it across the desk. Alexander blinked at the sight of his own face staring back at him. 

“You’ve been working for me ever since I returned to active legal service,” Washington said. “That’s six years ago.”

“I guess so, sir,” Alexander said. He cocked his head, staring at the tiny picture. He looked almost the same, heavy shadows under the eyes and all. There were just more lines on the sides now.

“That was six years ago,” Washington said. When Alexander looked up, his boss was smiling. “How do you feel about a promotion?”

“Say what?” Alexander stared.

“It’s long past time for you to be made partner,” Washington said. He leaned back on his chair, folding his hands on top of his lap. “I’ve been discussing with Henry and Nathaniel,” Mr Knox and Mr Green, Alexander filled in; the other two names on the door, “and with your efforts on the Weeks case, we’ve agreed that you can skip straight past junior partner to partner.”

His smile widened. “There’s a space on our door that needs to be filled, Hamilton, and we’ve chosen you to fill it.”

Oh. Alexander closed his eyes. He could almost see it: _Knox, Green, Washington, and_ Hamilton. In that muted gold paint on polished dark hardwood, right on the door of the building. A new office with his own floor, his own people working for him…

“No,” he said. He shook his head. “I’m afraid I have to refuse, sir.”

Washington’s eyebrows raised. “That’s unexpected,” he said. He leaned forward, elbows on top of the desk. His fingertips toyed with the edge of the plastic folder that contained the employment contract that Alexander had signed six years ago, straight out of the law school. “Can I ask why?”

“Of course,” Alexander said. He bit his lip, looking down at his hands. “Sir, you said that it’s because of the efforts that I’ve made with the Weeks case. I believe that you’re mistaken about what you think I actually did.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Washington said, voice dry. “I’ve read the transcripts. I’ve contacted Franklin and asked him about your conduct.”

“That’s not good enough, sir,” Alexander said. He winced, realising his rudeness, and added hurriedly, “I can’t answer you properly if I don’t know what it is that you think I’ve done.”

“The opening statement was entirely your work,” Washington said, starting to count on his fingers. “In fact, it is something you came up with on the fly, in court itself, and you managed to sustain the argument during the cross-examinations you did. You sustained it practically single-handedly during the closing statement.” He looked up to Alexander, eyes narrowing beneath dark, heavy brows. “And you showed a great deal of integrity in admitting to Franklin about what you did.”

Wincing again, Alexander rubbed the back of his neck. “You know about that?”

“Not in its entirety,” Washington said. “Franklin refused to expand on the details. But he told me that you did something very brave and very honest.” He paused. “He’s not a man much for compliments.”

“If…” Alexander hesitated. “If I may ask, sir, _how_ did you ask Judge Franklin about me?”

“Is this now a cross-examination?” Washington asked, head cocked to the side. He waved away Alexander’s apology before he could even begin to voice it. “I asked him about his thoughts on your performance during the entire trial, and that was what he told me.”

“Oh,” Alexander said. He looked down to his hands for a long moment, and took a deep breath. “If I may say so, sir, I think you have a very wrong impression of what actually happened during the case.”

“I’ve read your report,” Washington said. “And Burr’s as well. What you have both written corroborates with what I have just said.”

His voice was mild. But Alexander had known his boss and worked for him for long enough to realise that Washington was the most dangerous at his mildest. The calm before the storm; the gentleness before the sudden rage. He fought down a flinch.

“Neither of us lied in our reports, sir,” he said. He tipped his head back and looked Washington in the eye. “But there were several things we were obliged to leave out of the official documents.” He hesitated. “Not by our own wishes.”

“By whose, then?” Washington raised an eyebrow.

Another breath. He could practically smell the electricity in the air; feel the weight of Washington’s gaze threatening to crush him with his expectations. “Judge Franklin’s, sir,” he said quietly. “Judge Madison’s. As well as District Attorney Jefferson’s.”

Washington sank a little lower in his chair. He crossed his arms, and tapped his fingers over his biceps. “I think,” he said slowly, “you have to start from the beginning.”

Of course he did. Alexander nodded, and took a deep breath. “When I asked you for the exact question you posed to Judge Franklin, sir, I did so because there were a lot of closed-doors negotiations that happened during this case.” He bit his lip. “The first of which happened in this very room.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander nodded. “It was one that neither Burr nor I were privy to. Your discussion with Ms Ezrine Weeks to convince her to hire me along with Burr, instead of just Burr alone.” He shook his head, pressing on before Washington could reply. “I thank you for your faith in me, sir, but that… set a precedent for the case. I was eager, _desperate_ even, to prove myself. I thought that I could only do so by winning.”

He paused. “And I cheated to win.”

“You have to explain what you mean by that,” Washington said quietly.

“Despite Burr and my best efforts, sir, there is a discrepancy in the court records that neither of us can eradicate.” And, quite honestly, Alexander didn’t want to. “I first heard Levi Weeks’s confession on March 29th. But I only submitted the evidence on April 19th. That was a lag time of nearly an entire month, sir.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Washington nodded. “But I don’t see how that means you cheated to win.”

“During that period, I looked for blackmail material on District Attorney Jefferson,” Alexander rushed to explain. “On April 11, I found the material I need – that was how Judge Madison became involved in the situation. April 13: I confronted him with the material. District Attorney Jefferson offered a plea bargain on April 15, and told Judge Franklin about it.”

Before Washington could say a word, Alexander leaned forward, knowing that he was steamrolling over his boss and yet unable to help himself. “I know how bad it would look, sir. Jefferson was winning the case at the time. He had no knowledge of the confession, no real evidence of Weeks’s guilt, but circumstantial evidence was on his side and he was destroying our case. It made no logical sense for him to offer a plea bargain. If it had gotten out, then there would be an investigation made, and that would’ve caused my ruin.” He took a deep, long breath, and met Washington’s eyes again.

“It was Burr who convinced Judge Madison to not call in an investigation,” Alexander said quietly. “It was also Burr who reminded me about the true role of a lawyer – not to win a case, but to seek the truth. It was Burr who managed to convince me to submit the evidence. Judge Franklin didn’t put the plea bargain in the records. That’s… that’s why it wasn’t in the records, sir.”

“Is that the only closed-door negotiation involved?” Washington asked, eyes still narrowed.

“One of them,” Alexander nodded. “There are many between Burr and myself, sir. You implied previously that I practically carried the entire argument by myself, but that’s not true. I might have come up with the argument on liberty on the fly,” he wasn’t going to be humble about something that was true, “but Burr adapted really well to it. Burr did most of the cross-examinations, including the ones for Laurens and Mulligan,” John and Herc, he corrected himself in his mind, but he wasn’t going to be informal with his boss when he was trying to convince him, “which was on the very day he heard the argument.”

“Hm,” Washington said. He steepled his hands together. There was a faint hint of a smirk on the corner of his mouth. “You have never been much for circumlocution, Hamilton. Get straight to the point.”

Alexander took a deep breath. He pressed his hands on the edge of Washington’s desk, half-standing up as he looked earnestly into those stern, dark eyes. 

“Thank you for thinking of me, sir,” he said. “Thank you for convincing Ms Weeks to take me on this case.” Despite all that happened, he was glad to have been part of the case. Because while he had met a monster in the face of Levi Weeks, he had also met little Theo, the dragon-slayer. He also now had Burr. “I know that you did it in order to prove to Mr Knox and Mr Green that I’m worthy of being a partner. But… please, offer it to Burr instead.”

“Now that’s a surprise,” Washington murmured. “I was under the impression that you didn’t like him.”

“Whether I like him or not is immaterial, sir,” Alexander said, just as earnest. The last thing he wanted was for Washington to offer Burr a partnership just based upon his favouritism for Alexander; that was a recipe for disaster. “But if you are going to offer a partnership to someone involved in this case, it should be Burr.”

“Because he possibly saved you from ruin?” Washington tilted his head to the side.

“Not only that, sir,” Alexander shook his head. “There is also… Well, it goes back to closed-door negotiations again. Most of the useful preparation we had for our argument came not from the evidence I gathered, sir, but from the negotiations Burr had with Madison regarding Jefferson.”

“The clownfish and the anemone,” Washington murmured. So he had heard the same rumours as Burr had; Alexander spent a moment wondering if it was from the same source. “Is that what your blackmail material was about?”

Alexander winced. “I’m not at liberty to say, sir.” He was pretty sure that Burr had only barely stopped Madison from murdering him with his bare hands. He would rather not test his luck even though he knew that Washington would likely not tell anyone; he hadn’t forgotten the way that heavy wooden banister had cracked like nothing under Madison’s hands.

“I see,” Washington said. After a moment, he chuckled. “You’ve learned to read people even better, Alexander.”

“Huh?” Too late, he realised he’d said that out loud. “I mean, what?”

“That question you asked about Franklin,” Washington pointed out. “You’ve figured him out rather quickly. Especially given that, as you said, you’ve only had one proper meeting with him.”

“Honestly, sir,” Alexander said, dragging a hand through his hair, “it’s not hard to figure out.” Franklin kept many, many secrets. Most of which weren’t his own. 

“True enough,” Washington hummed. “Isn’t that a good reason to give you this promotion?” He tapped the file.

Shaking his head, Alexander ducked his head down. “That doesn’t seem to be a very good reason for a promotion,” he pointed out. “Especially to being a partner.”

“It’s a useful skill,” Washington said.

“Burr is better at it than I am,” Alexander said. “He has more objectivity.”

“Sometimes objectivity isn’t such a good thing,” Washington shook his head. “Burr doesn’t have passion.”

“He does,” Alexander refuted before he could stop himself. He fetched Washington a sheepish grin. “It’s just… very much hidden, I guess. But I’ve seen it.”

“You’re pretty determined about this.”

“Because…” Alexander hesitated. Hell, he had been honest with Washington so far – and he had always been honest with his boss – so he might as well go along with it. “He reminded me about the right thing to do. Set my compass back in the correct direction.” Along with many other things. Not that Alexander would even hint about _that_ to Washington. “I might still be biased, but I genuinely believe that he deserves this more than I do.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Washington said, sounding amused. He shook his head and sighed, closing Alexander’s file and pushing it to the side. “Well, this is going to start negotiations with Henry and Nathaniel all over again.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Alexander blinked.

“They agreed on making you a partner,” Washington said, dry now. “They didn’t say a word about Burr.”

Scratching the back of his head, Alexander fetched him a sheepish smile. And a shrug. “Sorry?”

“Don’t say something you don’t mean,” Washington said. “Well, if you’re adamant in refusing…”

“I am, sir,” Alexander said quickly.

“If you’re adamant in refusing,” Washington repeated as if he hadn’t heard, “then you better get back to work.”

“Yes sir,” Alexander said. He stood up and gave Washington a short bow. He headed for the door, and remembered something. “Oh, yes. There’s another reason why I’m refusing, too.”

Washington blinked; a silent question. Alexander’s lips curved up into a wide grin.

“Gil will be _really_ mad with me if I start increasing my workload again,” Alexander said. “He only has a couple of weeks left before he has to go back to France, and I promised to hang out with him more.” He paused deliberately. “Oh, and John and Herc would be just as pissed, though they don’t have the excuse of having a limited time to spend in America.”

Slowly, Washington’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “That’s a change,” he said.

“Yeah,” Alexander said. He put his hand on the doorknob. “When I said that Burr saved me from ruin, I didn’t just mean career-wise.”

Throwing a grin over his shoulder, one more suited to his ex-professor instead of his boss, Alexander left the office. He leaned against the door for a moment, listening. There was nothing, so he headed back down.

He barely managed to sit down in his own chair when his phone buzzed with a text.

**Gil:** What did you say to mon General? He sounds so confused? 


Putting his head down, Alexander burst out laughing. His phone buzzed again. _  
_

**Gil:** Now he’s asking me if he ended up matchmaking you and Burr by putting you two on the same case.  
**Gil:** He also said he didn’t mean to.  
**Gil:** What do I tell him????  
**Gil:** Alexandre stop laughing and answer my texts!  
**Gil:** I live in mon General’s HOUSE Alexandre. He’s going to grill me about this tonight.  
**Gil:** He’s going to get Martha into it too. I can FEEL him texting her, Alexandre. If you don’t tell me what I’m not supposed to say, then I’ll end up telling them everything! Including the sex parts!  
**Gil:** Don’t make me tell mon General and his wife the sex parts, Alexandre. 


Alexander took a deep breath.

**You:** Tell him he can ask Burr himself if he offers him the partnership.  
**You:** Also, why is he so informal with you?  
**You:** I was literally in the same room as him just now and he didn’t sound anything like how you’re describing him. 


It took Gil barely a minute to text back.

**Gil:** One, I’m not his employee. Or a client.  
**Gil:** Two, you didn’t just pull away from us, Alexandre. You pulled away from him, too. 


Well, that was true enough. Alexander dragged a hand over his face. Maybe he should do something about that. Eventually.

Right now, he tapped on his phone.

**You:** Yeah, well. Anyway, I gotta get back to work. Talk to you tomorrow or something. 


Then, tossing his phone to the side, he dived back to work. There were only five hours left, and so much to do.

And habits were difficult to break.

***

_May 11, Wednesday_

“Are you here to apologise for him?”

They were seated at one of the outside tables of a café that was close enough to Columbia for her to walk and far enough that most of the student population wouldn’t bother making the effort; New York was stuffed to the brim with cafés, after all. They had been sitting here, sipping their drinks – tea for him, and coffee for her – without talking ever since they sat down.

The silence was stifling and she simply couldn’t take it anymore.

Madison lifted his eyes to her. “I think I have done enough supposedly for his good that I know better than to do so,” he said.

That was more information than Sally had asked for. Not just in the words, but in the subtle lines around his eyes, creases deep and sharp, and the heavy shadows beneath them that were visible even through his dark skin.

She didn’t want to notice those things. She never did. Yet they came to her anyway.

Putting her cup down, she sighed, stifling the urge to drag a hand through her hair. Angelica had offered to come with her today, and though Sally knew this was yet another shadow she must banish on her own, she now regretted not taking her up on the offer.

“So why did you want to meet me?” she asked. “You said that you wanted to apologise.”

“Yes,” Madison said. He spun his cup around with a finger, eyes fixed on the table. If she could see him as a man prone to such things, she would think him nervous. “But not for him. For myself.”

He lifted his eyes, and met her incredulous stare with a small, wry smile. “I’m here to apologise for my actions towards you.”

“Oh,” Sally said. She sipped at her coffee again, more as a reason to not speak and occupy her hands than the need for caffeine. She took a deep breath, and put the cup back down onto the coaster. “Do you think it’ll make me think better of him?” she asked. “Make me feel like I have to give him the forgiveness that he asked for, the last time?”

“Thomas isn’t my reason for being here,” Madison said. His voice was gentle, but it was the name – softly and sweetly caressed on the tongue, with all distance removed and intimacy obvious – that made her wince. “I’m only here for myself, I’m afraid.”

“You didn’t do anything to me,” Sally said. 

“I did,” he corrected her. His fingers toyed with the edges of the wet teabag on his saucer. “I terrified you. I made you feel more trapped than you already were. That’s what I’m here to apologise for.”

She barely heard the last statement, too busy staring at him again. Sally had noticed that his eyes were sharp and observant, of course – anyone who had ever met the man could tell that – but there was a difference between observation and the near mind-reading that he was doing. She swallowed.

“How did you figure that?” she whispered. “Did Angelica tell you?”

“Ms Schuyler will not divulge anything about you without your permission,” Madison said, voice slightly dry. “Even if she had it, I suspect that she would tell me nothing, nonetheless. She doesn’t like me very much.” He dipped his head down, and the shadows beneath his eyes grew even deeper.

“When I spoke to you the last time,” he started, and then shook his head. “When I threatened you, I understood your position. I could see from your eyes how you felt.” He placed his hands on the table, fingers resting together.

“You could _understand_ ,” Sally repeated flatly.

“I would not say that I know,” Madison continued softly. “That would be making presumptions. But I saw, and I understood.”

Throwing her head back, she barked a dark, helpless laugh. She pulled the curls away from her face, and shook her head. “If that’s supposed to convince me to offer you – or him – some kind of forgiveness, you’re really doing a piss-poor job.”

Maybe she shouldn’t swear in front of him, much less speak so rudely. But, right now, Sally simply didn’t care.

“That’s not my purpose here,” he said again. “I’m not trying to convince you to give either of us anything. Only that…” He hesitated. “I understood your position and your situation—” 

“Did you, really?” Sally interrupted him, drawling with her elbow on the table and her head in her hand.

“Yes,” Madison nodded. He looked down again, fingers tracing the whorls of the wooden table. “Your circumstances were such that you were trapped, and the only two exits that were available to you required that you had to cut off one thing or the other.” His hands folded together, and he met her eyes with his dark, intense ones. “You had to sacrifice either your integrity or your future. Then you found another way, one thing that involved great courage and strength for it was an attempt to break the cage around you.”

Slowly, he cocked his head. “I know exactly what I have done,” he said, voice softer than ever. “Like a tiger, I have stood at the door you had made with your own hands, and I tried to drive you back into that cage.”

Last month, he had stripped her to the bones with only his eyes. Now he had done it again but worse, for now he was turning her eyes to her bones, and forcing her to look at them herself.

Sally took a ragged breath. She tore her gaze from his, and stared instead at one of the other patrons in the café. A Hispanic woman, talking animatedly to her companion, hands flailing all over her face. She stared at the streets instead.

“None of that makes me willing to forgive you more,” she said.

“I’ll accept that,” he said, nodding. “I only wanted you to know exactly what I was apologising for.”

She didn’t ask him why he was apologising; she didn’t want to know. Instead, she sighed, turning back to look at him again.

“You know exactly what he has done, then,” she stated. When he nodded, she smiled, baring teeth at the corner of her mouth. “How do you still care so much for him when you know that he was the one who placed the cage?” 

Laughing, she waved a hand. “Let’s dispense with the metaphors,” she continued, widening her smirk until it was less of one than just a show of teeth. “He raped me. You knew that even when we first met. So how do you continue defending him?”

In the stories – not only the fairytales, but all of the stories she had read – the rapists always had their comeuppance. If they weren’t arrested, then those around them stopped loving them, all care and concern they felt shrivelling under the weight of the horror and disgust.

But Madison still talked about _him_ like he was someone precious.

“The reason is simple, Miss Hemings,” he said. His smile was small, but it was even more grotesque than hers. “I’m not such a good man either.”

Ah. She deliberately didn’t allow herself to remember Jefferson’s voice, so soft and weak, saying, _I’ve experienced what it’s like to be on the other side._ Instead, she threw her head back and laughed. The sound tasted bitterer on her tongue than coffee ever had

“Then why are you apologising?” she threw out. “Why are you telling me all this?” She tried to ignore the faint tugging thing inside her chest, the quiet voice that told her that she already knew.

The smile drained away from his face, and he sighed, dragging a hand through his short curls. The shadows cast by the umbrella above their heads fell over his face, nearly large enough to swallow him whole.

“Because I am trying to become better,” he said softly. “And so is he.”

If he could predict her, then she could do the same thing to him. Sally ducked her head down, shoulders shuddering with laughter that could not escape her lungs due to the weight that was in them.

“That’s not going to help,” she said quietly. She cocked her head to the side, and caught his eyes with her own. “If you were truly trying to help, then you should’ve painted the both of you more as villains. You should have allowed me to continue to try to see the two of you as villains.”

“I can still do that,” Madison said. “But I…” He sighed again. “Such a thing would have hurt you even more, Miss Hemings.”

So he knew that, too. So he could see that, too. Sally closed her eyes.

Here, in the middle of a public space, amidst hundreds of passing eyes: she had never felt nearly as exposed as she did in front of his. 

“Your metaphor was wrong, Judge Madison,” she murmured, lowering her eyes to stare into the depths of her coffee cup. “You were not the tiger outside the cage’s door. You were the darkness that crept into everything, even beneath the skin.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his again, and offered him a crooked, insincere smile. “You might say that you’re trying to be better, but with every word, you’re confirming my suspicions. A tiger has flesh and bones to look at, to hurt. You have neither.”

Surely it was strange; Jefferson had torn off strips of her skin to reveal the bones within, had pressed his fingers on them so hard that he had left bruises darkening the stark whiteness, and yet Sally could still see him as nothing more than a man. A terrible man whose very form tangled her insides into knots that she could not unravel, and which weight she knew she would feel for years. Yet, he was just a man.

Madison had done nothing but spoken to her, but she could not see him as a man. He sat here now, vulnerabilities exposed in the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes and resignation twisting the corners of his mouth, and Sally looked at him and saw nothing but shadows. A nightmare with solid form but without flesh, without blood.

“Please go,” she told him. “I’m not going to give you what you want.”

Perhaps he had expected that, too, for there was no surprise in his eyes. Only the deepening of that resignation, creating an abyss that threatened to drag Sally back down until she drowned and could never find her way up again.

“I see,” he said. He drained his tea. “Thank you for your time, Miss Hemings.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sally said. She met his eyes and saw that he knew that she did not mean that as a platitude, or vague politeness. He knew what she meant: she never wanted him to mention _anything_ to her again, or even appear in front of her.

He stood up. She turned away even as he said her name again, “Miss Hemings?”

“What is it?”

Silence stretched between them. Then he said, “Perhaps it means very little, but I’d like to apologise once more for any reminders you might receive in the future. Though both of us would like to stay out of the spotlight, we are still both public figures, and our influence can only reach so far.”

Of course he saw that too; the future that stretched out in front of her and which she didn’t want to see. That was the thing about shadows, wasn’t it? They were everywhere, even in the days that had not coalesced into solidity, even in the inside of her head. 

“Just go,” she sighed, tipping her head up to stare blankly at the underside of the café’s umbrella. “Please.”

He left. She watched as he did; looked at the broad shoulders and thick arms and wondered how many fools had thought the most dangerous thing about James Madison was the damage he could deal out through his physical strength. 

The shadows he controlled had nothing to do with the darkness of his skin. The violence he could cause had nothing to do with the strength of his hands.

Bruises and broken bones and even gunshot wounds could be fixed. Sally was learning how to fix them: gentle but firm touches, splints, needle and thread.

There were marks that went deeper. Crawling trails on the surface on bones. Twisting knots in nerves. Winding paths in neurons and weight engraved into flesh. Nothing that could be seen by machines.

She watched him go. The early afternoon sun cast a shadow behind him, short and dark. She finished the last of her coffee and laughed into the dregs of the beans, licking her teeth and the roof of the mouth because coffee’s tartness could easily be wiped away. She left the café.

Class was in an hour. She shouldn’t be late.

***

_May 13, Friday_

A stained bar counter that stretched through the length of the club. Piss-yellow lights that turned every human’s skin sickly, splashed with stripes of green and blue that made teeth and eyes monstrous when caught under the beams. Loud, incoherent music blasting through the speakers; rhythmic thumps that matched the muffled moans and groans coming from the toilets. The stench of vomit and urine and sex lingering in the air, sinking into the lungs no matter how hard he tried to keep it out; a physical weight that twisted into a hand that dragged bile up his throat.

The bar hadn’t changed since the last time Thomas had visited.

But there were differences too: the men were still grinding against each other, but they were bodies instead of shapes, faces instead of shadows. He had no desire towards any of them and he knew why. 

It had nothing to do with the bar. It had everything to do with his eyes, and the weight of the necklace resting on his collarbone and throat.

He scanned the club and spotted her immediately. She was standing behind the counter, her hair slightly shorter but still done in intricate braids that framed her face. As Thomas watched, she batted away hands by instinct, pouring drinks and collecting cards and money. Her face was entirely blank. His feet took him forward without him telling them to.

“Hey,” he said, carefully leaning his elbows on the counter, though he made sure that nothing he wore today cost more than twenty dollars per piece. “Do you guys sell water here?”

“We don’t,” Catherine Ring said without looking at him. “Unless you haven’t noticed, this is a bar.” She stopped mid-sentence, eyes growing wide. His lips twitched up into a small smile.

“Got time for a smoke break?” he asked.

“Jesus Christ,” she swore. As she stepped away from him, turning to one of her co-workers, Thomas drew out his newly-bought cigarette pack. The plastic was torn from it, and he had tossed away a couple so that it would look like he really was offering her a cigarette. He shook it.

“C’mon,” she said, walking out from behind the bar. Thomas followed her into the staff area and then out to the back. A different alleyway than the one that haunted his nightmares. He didn’t expect anything less from her, honestly.

Whirling around once they’re outside, she hissed, “Are you _insane_?”

“Not this time,” Thomas said. He drew out a cigarette with his teeth, offering the pack to her. “I’m serious about the smoke break.”

She plucked the white stick from his hand, jamming it between her lips. Her nails were an emerald green shade today, matching with the stripes of a darker shade on her dress. The lighter’s flame caught on her eyelids as she leaned into it, throwing the green there into sharp relief. She looked beautiful.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Looking for you,” Thomas said. When she stared at him, sceptical, he gave her a lopsided smile. “I’m serious about that. You never gave the office a call, and… Well, you’re not going to be able to reach me there anymore, so I figured…”

“Wait,” she interrupted him. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, I’m not going to reach you there anymore?” __  
  
“I’m quitting my job,” he said, lighting his own cigarette and blowing the smoke up into the air. Aside from James and the Mayor, he hadn’t actually told anyone this. 

Leaning her shoulder against the concrete beside him, Catherine kept her eyes on him. “Something to do with that exorcism of yours?” she asked, voice soft.

“Tangentially,” Thomas said. He tipped his head up and stared at the sky. “It’s more of… I remember what you said, and I figured that it’s long past time that I start living up to my own words.” 

It was supposed to be a half-moon today, but the heavy clouds hid it from view. Given that it was Friday the thirteenth, he supposed that it could be an ominous sign. Though he had never been much for superstition.

The whispers of _hypocrite_ he kept hearing belonged to a human woman, not a ghost.

“You’ve lost me,” Catherine said, a deep crease between her brows.

Thomas flashed her a smile. “I’m quitting my job to start a new firm,” he told her. “Taking on purely pro bono cases.” When she blinked, his smile widened. “Working for free for people who can’t afford it.”

“I know what pro bono means,” she said slowly. “I’m just not sure why you’re telling _me_ this.”

Taking another drag, Thomas let the smoke out between his lips. “See,” he said. “I found a nice little office in Bushwick. More of a nook than an actual space, really. It’s not very pretty right now, but there are lots of windows, so it’s bright.” He met her gaze straight on. “I’m wondering if you like to have the desk right in front of mine.”

“You’re offering me a _job_ ,” she said. Her eyes had gone so wide that Thomas could see the odd specks of blue even in this poor light.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been… thinking a lot about what you said. Not just the part about the labels. Not just about being happy with the person you look at in the mirror.” He knew he would never have that. Not with all that he had done. “But also how you can’t get a job anywhere but this shitty place because of what and who you are, and it’s not fair.”

Cocking his head to the side, he nudged her foot very gently with the tip of his shoe. “And you’re interested in law, too.”

“How did you figure _that_ out?” she asked, seeming unable to help herself.

“Well,” Thomas leaned back against the wall, sighing out another cloud of smoke. “You practically memorised my closing argument for my case before last.” He grinned at her. “Only law nerds would do that.”

She lowered her head. Her fingers toyed with the cigarette in her hand, but she didn’t take another drag, simply standing there. Thomas gave her the silence, finishing up his own stick before flicking the butt into the drain.

“Are you doing this because you think you owe me a favour?” she asked finally, looking up to him. “Because of what happened last time?”

There was no rain. The alleyway was different. There were no men around him and he wasn’t on his knees. But the stench was right there in his nose, thick and heavy, threatening to make him gag. His throat wanted to close and the plasticky taste of chemicals and tobacco on his tongue was nearly too much.

He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes and dropped his head forward. His hand slipped inside the collar of his shirt, grabbing onto the necklace. He thought of James- mistake, mistake because the musk was there now, thicker, even though James knowing where he was right now was why he felt safe enough to come here.

“Hey.” Catherine’s voice, coming from an ocean away. “C’mon. You’re not there. You’re not _then_.”

No, he wasn’t; he was months away. But months was still too short a distance. Thomas pressed his hand to his mouth, teeth around his palm. But he didn’t bite down because he knew the pain would make it worse. (James’s marks used to be all over his neck, his shoulder. Hands on his back. Hands pulling at his hair.)

Plunged back into the ocean, he fought his way back to the surface. His knees buckled and he hit the ground. Eventually, he gave up, turning his head and letting himself cough hard, just once.

“Why the fuck did you come here?” Catherine said, sounding distressed. “Like, for fuck’s sake. Why—”

“Not your fault,” Thomas said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Furthest thing from it, actually.” He raised his eyes to her, and gave a watery smile. “I guess this is what happens when an exorcism goes very, very wrong.”

“This isn’t just about what…” she trailed off, clearly unwilling to even mention that incident again.

He didn’t want to answer. But he did owe her honesty, because she gave him hers even when she didn’t have to. When he hadn’t even offered it to himself.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.” His head hit the concrete, and he let his eyes slip back closed again. “It’s a very, very long story. One that’s not entirely mine to tell.”

And he suspected that she wouldn’t understand anyway. Angelica didn’t. Neither did Lafayette, though Thomas knew he had tried his best.

 _You’re in love with your rapist,_ Lafayette had told him, voice sorrowful and his hands tangled with Thomas’s. _You’re scared of him,_ mon trognon. _And you’re right to be scared. He abused you and he raped you. He_ raped you.

 _I know_ , Thomas had said. God, he knew. He was still having nightmares about it. Sometimes when James kissed him, he was almost right back there again, on his knees. _But he’s trying to do better. And I can’t do without him. I can’t, Lafayette. I just can’t._

 __Lafayette had cried.

Every single website he looked up told him that the best thing he could do right now was to pull away from James. Permanently. Thomas couldn’t imagine it. He didn’t want to imagine it. Those websites had given him names, labels: Stockholm syndrome; cycle of abuse. None of them fitted. He had already loved James before… before everything went wrong.

Wiping his hand over his mouth, he pushed away those thoughts. When he opened his eyes, Catherine was sitting on her calves in front of him, her eyes dark with sorrow.

“The way you’re looking at me right now is why I want to hire you,” Thomas told her softly.

She blinked. “What?”

Drawing his knees up, he rested his wrists on top of them and sighed. “What I’m trying to do now is still… a try,” he said. “An intention. But intentions can only go so far.” He couldn’t help the sharp, hysterical laugh at that. He shook his head.

“There’s still so much I don’t understand,” he continued, holding her gaze. “So much I won’t be able to understand. But you can. You get it. You can look at someone and know what they’re going through, and know the best way to help them. I need someone like that so I won’t screw up.”

That was exactly what she had done for him. Though he hadn’t deserved it.

“Are you sure you’re not doing this because you think you owe me a favour?” Catherine asked, voice dry. “Because _I’m_ not sure.”

Thomas dragged a hand over his face. He sighed. “If this is because of the favour, then I’d be offering you some kind of legal help,” he pointed out. “Or money. For whatever surgery I’d believe you need.” 

His lips crooked into a smile; he knew now exactly the kind of bastard he used to be. “But that’s not what I’m doing.”

She was gaping at him. “What the _hell_ happened to you in the past two months?” she demanded.

“A storm,” Thomas told her honestly. “A storm that threw everything into disarray, and made me see things like I should’ve been seeing them all along.”

“That’s not,” she started, then gave up, snarling incoherently instead. “Fucking _lawyer_.” Pulling her braids back into a makeshift ponytail, she let them fall again, and said, “How did you figure out that I wouldn’t want any kind of surgery?” There was genuine curiosity in her voice.

Stifling the grin that wanted to appear, he said, “You told me that you were fine with how you looked in the mirror.” Her exact words had been: _I don’t want to scream or cry or cringe whenever I look at myself in the mirror_. “You also told me about how labels don’t fit you.”

“Wait,” she held up a hand. “You remember all of that? I thought you were…” She waved her hand vaguely in the air.

Helplessly, he barked another sharp laugh. “I remember everything,” Thomas said, tapping a finger to the side of his head. “Crystal clear memory. No matter what I do to my head, that doesn’t go away.”

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, eyes widening. “That’s…” She couldn’t seem to finish the sentence, shuddering.

Lidding his eyes heavily, Thomas gave her a wry smile he didn’t feel. “Yeah,” he said. He shouldn’t be able to remember those weeks he’d spent in a fog, and yet he did. Everything he had done, everything he had felt, everything he had even _thought_ – he remembered all of it.

“And you just gave me another reason to want to hire you, by the way,” Thomas said, shaking himself free of the thoughts that always threatened to drag him down underwater again. “You can extrapolate _exactly_ what something means to someone else, someone with very different experiences from you. That’s exactly what I need if I’m going to make this new job work.”

“What if I tell you that you don’t owe me a favour?” Catherine threw the question out like a challenge. “You did enough by exposing that bastard Weeks and putting him behind bars where he belongs.”

“That’s not repaying a favour,” Thomas pointed out. “That’s doing my job.”

“But,” she started.

“ _Anyway_ ,” he interrupted her. “Speaking of the case, you were calling Weeks a bastard when even Alphonse and Luisa were willing to give him a chance for the sake of their son. You said that he gave you the creeps.”

Cocking her head to the side, she gave him a flat stare. “You’re going to twist everything I say into something that proves your point, aren’t you.”

Thomas spread out his hands. “I’m a lawyer,” he said, droll.

She barked a laugh, and then looked surprised. “And you’re trying to, what, make me your receptionist? Your professional people-watcher?”

“My paralegal, actually,” he said, giving her a grin out of the corner of his mouth. “If you’re okay with taking classes while working.”

For some reason, that had her staring at him again. She laughed shakily. “And where am I going to find the money for _that_?”

He hesitated. Maybe it was insensitive. Still, he had to try.

“I can give it to you,” he said softly. “Kind of like, I don’t know, an incentive to get you to work for me?”

Giving him another flat stare, she dropped her head back and heaved a sigh. “God, you really do need help,” she muttered. Before he could give her the apology already hovering on the tip of his tongue, she shook her head. “Look, if – and that’s a fucking big if, okay – if I take this job, you’ll _lend_ me the money, and I’ll _pay it back_ with market rate interest. I’m not going to be your goddamned charity case.”

“Okay,” Thomas said. When she narrowed her eyes, he threw up his hands in the universal gesture for surrender. “I mean it. Okay.” He carefully tucked away the comment about how night classes for legal studies wouldn’t be expensive for him to pay for even with his reduced means.

“Look, this is kind of really sudden,” she said finally, tugging on one of her tiny braids. “I’d need time to think about it. I’d need to talk to Elia, too.”

“Hold on,” Thomas said. He stood up halfway so he could dig into the pocket of the jeans he was wearing – they were baggy and didn’t fit very well, but he still needed more room than he had to get anything out. 

She stared at the crumpled piece of paper he held out to her. “You couldn’t have given me your card?”

“That’d mean that I’m still asking you this as District Attorney,” Thomas said. “Which I’m not.”

“Yeah, and now you’re giving me your number like you’re trying to hit on me,” Catherine drawled. “At least this isn’t a receipt or something.”

“Look, I’m crass,” Thomas said, dragging a hand through his hair. “But I’m not _that_ crass.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” she muttered, making to stand. She brushed her dress, dislodging black flakes of dirt and… whatever else there, and looked at him where he was still sitting. “Hey, you have a way to get home?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. He waggled his phone in her direction. “My personal demon is coming to pick me up.”

She stared at him, and cocked her head very slowly to the side. “You’re talking about your boyfriend, right?” she asked. “This is your very crappy attempt at continuing the exorcism metaphor, right?”

Thomas pushed against his knees as he stood. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” he grinned at her. “For answers, come work with me.” Easier to say that than to mention that ‘boyfriend’ simply sounded far too _wrong_ as a term to describe James.

“Fucking _stop it_ ,” she kicked at his foot. “I said I’d think about it.”

“I’m giving you incentive,” he pointed out. Then he had to dodge another kick, this time aimed at his shin. “Oy!”

“This is whatever you call an anti-incentive,” she huffed. “If this is what I have to put up with if I have to work with you…”

“Pros and cons, right?” he drawled. When she turned away from him deliberately, he said, “Hey.”

He tossed her the pack of cigarettes. “My personal demon told me to not smoke anymore,” he said. Not to mention that James had asthma, and he had said several times that kissing Thomas after he smoked was like licking an ashtray.

“My _wife_ ,” she stressed the word, as if trying to teach him how to properly address one’s significant other, “tells me the same thing.” She threw the pack back. “Throw it away or something.”

Or he could keep it as a reminder. Of what, he wasn’t sure; he needed reminders about many things. He slipped it into his pocket and made a mental note to decide later.

There was a look in her eyes as she continued staring at him. Thomas knew without asking that she was putting the pieces together, making those terrifyingly accurate assumptions that her perception of the world granted her. He was sure that if she ever met James, she would look at him the same way as she was looking at Thomas now.

Maybe he should put off that meeting as long as he could. If she ever agreed to work for him, that was. Speaking of that…

“I’m still going to be at the D.A. office until the end of June,” he told her. “Have to finish up a lot of things. So you have plenty of time to decide.”

“When are you setting up this new office of yours?” she asked.

Grinning again, he decided to not mention that she looked far too interested. “Probably early July,” he shrugged. “But I’ll need someone to help me set up before that. Move things in. Stuff.”

She tugged on a braid again, and then tucked it behind her ear. “I’ll think about it,” she told him again.

He watched as she disappeared into the club. Then he followed her. This time, he didn’t take in the sights – he had seen enough to practically memorise every detail of the place – instead simply crossing the length of it until he reached the door on the other end. When he turned back, she was back to mixing drinks again.

It was obvious that she was good at her job. It was obvious, too, that she was too good for it.

Slipping outside, he walked up the street until he found the curb he’d sat at the last time. The night was still warm despite the late hour, the air practically muggy. The last vestiges of winter had disappeared entirely, and it was nearly summer.

The last time he’d been here, he’d called Sally. He’d wanted someone who could make him feel in control; make him feel safe. He’d thought he’d made the right choice.

This time, he called James. He still wanted the same thing.

“Hey,” he said when James picked up. “I’m here. Come on over?”

Now he knew he did. No matter what anyone else might say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander still has a lot to learn; he’s been stuck in his well for a long time, and it’s going to take a while before he learns to walk towards the moon even when all of the bricks have been removed and he has been lifted from the depths.
> 
> Sally, on the other hand, is old beyond her time. This is what happens when you’ve had to deal with the shit she had to deal with. (Everyone praises kindness. But, sometimes, it’s less of a virtue than a curse. Not to mention her strong urge for independence. It’s like what Aristotle said: every virtue that goes to the extremes become a vice. Except, this time, it’s one that hurts her the most instead of anyone else.)
> 
> I love Catherine too much to not give her another scene. Remember I said that the scene in Chapter 8 was the only one she would appear in? Yeah, I lied.
> 
> One more proper chapter left, and then the epilogues.


	30. ‘til we meet again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Nothing except for the standard mind-screw warning. (But then again, this is the last chapter. I think most of you have decided by now what you think about the characters, so it’s not so much a mind-screw anymore.)

_May 14, Monday_

“You asked to see me, sir?”

A strange look crossed Washington’s face as he turned away from his laptop. Aaron continued standing at the doorway, waiting with his head slightly cocked to the side.

While they had been heading home together last Monday, Alexander had told him, halting and hesitant, that Washington might call him in sometime during the week. He had refused to tell Aaron what for when Aaron asked, and so Aaron hadn’t thought very much about it. Or rather, he had shut up that niggling little voice in his head and carried on with his work, because there really hadn’t been much that he could do aside from wait.

He was still good at waiting.

“Come in, Burr,” Washington said, pushing the file aside. “Sit down.”

Stepping inside the office and closing the door behind him, Aaron sat down at one of the chairs opposite Washington’s. He kept his shoulders loose as he crossed his legs, resting his hands on top of his raised knee with some deliberation. Not so little to show that he was being too casual with his employer, but not too much either to expose the nervousness that he felt.

“I believe that Hamilton has told you what you’re here for,” Washington began.

“No, sir,” Aaron said, shaking his head. “He has told me nothing.”

“Really,” Washington said. He cocked his head to the side. “I thought the two of you had grown closer during the case?”

Aaron took in a breath through his teeth. His lips curved into a smile he didn’t feel. “I was under the impression, sir, that this meeting is about professional matters.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Not the personal.”

As expected, Washington looked unfazed. He leaned back on his chair, legs spreading slightly to take up all the space in the seat. “There are some crossovers,” he told Aaron, voice dry. “That’s inevitable when one grows to care about one’s staff, I believe.”

Ah. Aaron fought down a smile. “Do you believe that I do not have the capacity to care?” he asked, keeping his own voice even and soft. “Whether it is about my clients, or about my,” another pause, “colleagues?”

Washington’s eyes narrowed. Aaron met the intensity of that gaze head-on, taking care to not tip his head back slightly. That would suggest that he had something to prove; he didn’t.

“You’re a very sharp and observant man, Burr,” Washington said slowly. “That is a very good trait in a lawyer, for though many of the public might say that our job is to lie, I believe that it is more to expose the lies. To uncover the truth that anyone might try to hide from us.”

Folding his hands on his lap, Aaron waited.

“The problem with that sharpness, of course, is that it might cut,” Washington said. His head dipped down, chin tucking into the base of his throat. “Unless you have the compassion to hold the blade to the side.”

“Do you believe that I don’t have such compassion, sir?” Aaron murmured.

“That was what I believed,” Washington said, stressing the past tense unduly. Then he sighed, running a hand over the top of his head and leaning forward, elbows on his desk. “Yet now it seems that I have reason to… reconsider my judgment.”

Making a small sound at the base of his throat, Aaron cocked his head to the side. He considered Washington’s posture at the moment: elbows held wide, legs spread even wider beneath the desk. Many would consider that to be an open posture, one which allowed Washington to expose his vulnerabilities to the eyes of those who looked at him, but Aaron suspected otherwise: Washington was making himself look as big as his tall, broad body would allow.

This was a threat.

“Are those suspicions the reason you never liked me, sir?” Aaron asked, still soft. When Washington raised one of his dark eyebrows, Aaron allowed himself a smile that was sharp at the edges. “As you said, my eyes see a great deal.”

“Hah,” Washington said. He leaned back in his chair before his hands dropped down onto his legs. His thighs remained spread. “That is only part of it.”

“Oh?”

“A lawyer’s job is the seek truth, Burr,” Washington said, taking on that lecturing tone Aaron had learned a distaste for ever since his days at Columbia. “But that’s not the whole of it, I’m afraid. A lawyer, especially one who specialises in criminal law, has to deal with traumatised victims of crimes. They have to deal with people placed in terrible and terrifying situations. They do not require only a man with a sword by their sides, but a man with a sword and also a heart that could understand them.”

“You believe I don’t have the capacity for such a heart,” Aaron stated.

Washington sighed. “Like I said, I used to believe you didn’t,” he pointed out. “Yet now I find that there is a testimony that attests to the contrary.”

“Only one?” Aaron raised an eyebrow. “A singular contradictory testimony is usually discounted in court.”

“Though I use the metaphor, this is not court,” Washington said, voice dry. “Even if it is… that singular testimony holds more weight, for the witness understands the defendant better, and his information is more up-to-date.”

Letting out a huff of breath through his nose, Aaron allowed a furrow to appear between his brows. “Hamilton refused to tell me what went on at your meeting, sir,” he said, placing a definitive weight to the form of address. “As he refused, my frame of reference for the purpose of this conversation, or even its context, is exceedingly small.”

His smile widened. “In other words, sir, I have no idea why I’m here, or what this is about, but I can play the bullshit game for as long as you’d like me to because, as you said, I’m rather good at it.”

Aaron waited, watching: Washington blinked. Then his head tipped to the side to a twenty-degree angle, and he blinked again. Aaron could practically hear the cogs in his mind turning.

“I didn’t expect that from you.”

“Your witness was biased,” Aaron said, shrugging. “His behaviour has affected that of the defendant.”

“Why _didn’t_ you speak like this before?” Washington asked.

Fetching him a wry smile, Aaron shook his head. “Two reasons, sir: firstly, my direct superior was Mr Montgomery, not you, and therefore I have had few chances, much less reasons, to speak to you this way.” He paused, splaying out his hands on top of the desk and leaning forward very slightly. “Secondly, sir, we are both aware that you would rather not have hired me after graduation. There is truly very little that could be done to change a man’s mind when it has already been made.”

“But you could have still tried,” Washington said, frowning.

“That is Alexander’s way,” Aaron pointed out. “Perhaps yours as well. Not mine.” He had tried far too many times and had seen it fail for the same number to ever believe in the veracity of such methods.

Humming under his throat, Washington leaned forward. He dropped his head onto his hand – a casual move that sent a frisson of surprise up Aaron’s spine. “I’ve heard that a good employee is one who adapts himself to his employer’s needs,” Washington said. “A form of selflessness where the company comes first.”

Aaron barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “If that is the philosophy you believe in, sir,” he said dryly, “then you would not have favoured Alexander as much as you do.” Taking a deep breath, he continued:

“I believe you have taken the shape of a shell to be formlessness, and from there, malleability.” Aaron smiled, this time with teeth. “I assure you, sir, that I’m quite resistant to change and manipulations.”

“You’re the one who is mistaken, I’m afraid,” Washington returned, raising an eyebrow. His fingers tapped just once against the desk. “I saw the shape of the shell, true, and a creature tucked beneath its shadows.” A moment’s pause, and then he huffed. “I’m not very good with metaphors, Burr, so I shall give this to you straight.”

He lifted his eyes and looked straight into Aaron’s. “What I saw in you the first time, and what I thought was continuously confirmed, was a man not only set in his ways – for that is admirable – but who also blinds himself to all that might disrupt his particular vision. You learn well and quickly, Burr; there is no doubt about that. But all information you receive is immediately reshaped into something that suits _your_ point-of-view instead of expanding it.”

Keeping himself very still, Aaron let out a breath through his teeth. He knew that Washington had never liked him, and had always thought he recognised the reason for it being Washington’s own short-sightedness. Yet now his employer was showing that he was not nearly the fool that Aaron had taken him to be.

It wasn’t just a simple clash of philosophy but a lack that Washington saw in him. One that Aaron now recognised as well as being present within him before… before the hurricane in the shape of a man had knocked down all of his walls.

“You spoke in the past tense, sir,” he said.

“So I did,” Washington nodded. He leaned back once more on his chair, this time crossing his legs. “As I’ve already told you, I’ve had a new testimony that made me rethink some of my prior assumptions.” The slight quirk of his eyebrow was practically a blaring message to Aaron that Washington was, in fact, practicing what he had implicitly preached. “But, for the moment, I haven’t seen very much that will convince me.”

“Why should you?” Aaron asked, cocking his head to the side. “You still haven’t told me the reason for this meeting, sir.”

“Of course,” Washington said. He reached out for the file he had abandoned, grabbing it and pulling it over. When he opened it, the first thing Aaron saw was his own face staring back at him in a passport-sized photograph. He blinked.

“Your folder,” his boss informed him. “With summarised reports of every single case that you have taken while being part of our firm for the past six years.” 

The very files that only appeared in front of the employee himself when there was an impending change in status. Aaron blinked.

“Nathaniel and Henry and I have talked things over,” Washington said. “If you’re amenable to it, we’d like to promote you to partner on a probationary basis.” He paused. “The condition being that you’re able to work well with all three of us.”

 _Especially me_ , Washington didn’t say. Aaron heard the words loud and clear anyway.

“Is this because of Alexander?” he asked, practically flinging the words out in his need to voice them. “Is this something he wanted you to do?”

Folding his arms, Washington gave him a long, steady look. “Why do you think that I would make a decision, much less all three of us would make a decision, based upon the desires of one of our employees?” he asked, voice dry. “Do you believe that my favouritism goes that far?”

 _Yes_ , Aaron swallowed back. He shook his head instead. “It is a very strange offer, sir,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Especially given our conversation so far.”

“I was hoping that you can convince me further that this is a good idea,” Washington shrugged. 

“What about Mr Green and Mr Knox?” 

“Nathaniel has no preferences towards either of you,” Washington said. “The Weeks case created a great deal of publicity for our firm, and there are enough cases pouring in that we have more right to choose than ever. He believes that one of you should be rewarded for that, and leaves the decision of which one to me. And Henry…” Washington paused, and shook his head.

“He’d rather neither of you,” he said, dryly. “For the simple reason that Jefferson still, technically, won the case.”

Aaron blinked. “I’d like to know the solution Mr Knox has to ensure that Levi Weeks is found guilty, like he should be, and the prosecution still loses, sir,” he said, smiling just a little wryly.

Washington spread both hands out. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said.

“So this means that the decision for Mr Montgomery’s replacement comes down to you,” Aaron said, turning the subject back. His lips curved up into a small, sharp smile. “Given that you have shown yourself capable of convincing a client to take a case in order to give your favoured employee a chance at the partnership…” He shrugged. “Again, I dislike attempting to convince a man who is already convinced.”

“Is it such a bad thing you have to work with Hamilton on the Weeks case?” Washington asked, voice mild.

“That’s beside the point.”

“Humour me.”

Aaron hesitated. He considered his possible options – deflect, evade, lie, or tell the truth – and decided that if Washington liked honesty, then that would be what Aaron would give. He _did_ want his name at the door.

“Working beside Alexander was not unpleasant,” he said, inclining his head. “He brought a great deal of insights that I would not have seen on my own, and it was his passion and empathy that allowed him to win Weeks’s trust to even get that final condemning piece of evidence in the first place.”

When Washington didn’t speak for a long moment, Aaron fetched him a wry smile. “Did you expect me to try to downplay Alexander’s contributions, sir?”

“Not exactly,” Washington said. He went silent for another moment more before he nodded, seemingly to himself, and drew out a stapled stack of papers from the file. He pushed it over to Aaron. “You’ve convinced me.”

“What?” Aaron said. He tried to not gape, and knew he didn’t succeed.

“I said that you didn’t have the ability to adapt,” Washington shrugged. “To, well, not go against your principles but your _habits_ when it comes to doing what is necessary. You have just proven to me that you’re capable of such a thing.”

“That is only one answer,” Aaron pointed out.

“It’s an answer with a great deal at stake for you and very little for me,” Washington said, steepling his fingers together and looking at Aaron above them. “One where the right choice would be giving up your pride for your ambition.”

“Are they really two separate things?” 

Perhaps Aaron shouldn’t be doing this; perhaps he should just jump at the chance to sign the contract put in front of him. This was precisely what he had been fighting for ever since he began work at this company.

Still, he couldn’t help but look into Washington’s dark eyes and doubt. He wondered if Washington would expect this of him; that he would think Aaron would be capable and _willing_ to sacrifice his habits and pride just for the sake of holding onto this partnership. If it would always be held above his head, the vine laden with grapes to his Tantalus.

Alexander was a bad influence. 

“I find ambition to be a good trait,” Washington told him. “So is the ability to compromise for the sake of moving forward, as well as a significant ability to hold onto one’s principles.”

Linking his hands together, Aaron placed them on the table. He gave Washington a tight-lipped smile.

“If you’re looking for a partner who will have the traits that Alexander has,” he said slowly, “then perhaps you should have tried harder to convince him to take it on instead of offering it to me now.”

Blinking, Washington opened his mouth. Then he closed it and chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s fair,” he said. “But I’m not only looking for traits that Alexander has, but those you do as well.”

Aaron waited, and didn’t speak.

“That observational skills I mentioned just now,” Washington said. “I will not call Hamilton blind, Burr, but he is far too…” 

“Honest?” Aaron supplied.

“Yes,” Washington nodded. “He is honest, and he cannot imagine himself being otherwise.” Both true and not at the same time, Alexander was plenty capable of behaving dishonestly – in a different meaning of the word than lying – if he believed himself to be doing the right thing. Only then, and he couldn’t exactly hold up that particular lie for long.

“And so he cannot imagine anyone else doing the same,” he said when he realised Washington was waiting for him.

“Precisely,” Washington nodded. His eyes returned to Aaron, and his lips quirked up into a smirk that showed a hint of teeth.

“Is that how you justified to Mr Knox and Mr Green your change of mind?”

“One of the reasons,” Washington said, his smile tugging wider. “The other being that a man who actually wants the position will be better at it than one who doesn’t.” He paused, and then shrugged. “The idea that the best leaders are those who do not wish to lead is nothing but a fantasy.”

Ah. So that was it, then.

“Mr Green looks for further prestige for the firm,” Aaron murmured. “Mr Knox does not look, for he sees only his need for vengeance. But, you, sir… You look for someone who can be led by you, and who will lead those beneath him in your stead.” He returned Washington’s smile, matching every sharp edge with his own. “The lieutenant general to your general.”

“You draw lines where there should be none,” Washington said. “And you tread on dangerous grounds.”

“I’m not drawing lines,” Aaron denied, shaking his head. “I only state what I have figured out, sir. You mentioned that my skills of observation are what led me to this office in this moment; I’m only giving you what you want.” He paused, and then said, “And that is the trait you prize above the other, given that you still haven’t mentioned that.”

“Getting to it,” Washington said. He linked his hands together above his mouth, dark eyes piercing. “I’ve gone through the transcripts of all your cases, Burr. And Hamilton’s as well.” A pause, and then he shrugged.

“Quite frankly, you’re the better lawyer.”

Now _that_ was unexpected. Aaron blinked. “Pardon?”

“Hamilton is good with words,” Washington said. “Very good with them, in fact. But he wins his battles not through the words alone, but the passion implied beneath them. He sweeps a room with his emotion.”

“True enough,” Aaron murmured.

“That is an invaluable skill in the courtroom,” Washington said. “Invaluable, too, as a leader. But not as a partner.” He cocked his head at Aaron. “Not when the majority of the cases we take do not involve the criminal courts or the ideals he holds on to so tightly. Not when his passion lies not for the firm, but the law itself and the injustices he believes he must fight against.”

“Do you believe that _my_ passion lies with the firm?” Aaron couldn’t help the note of incredulity that slipped into his tone.

“Of course not,” Washington snorted. “You might have worked nowhere else, and have never expressed a desire to leave, but I’d be a fool to take those as signs that your loyalty lies with us.”

True enough. Aaron nodded.

“But you are not driven by passion,” Washington pointed out. “Only efficacy towards a stated purpose. You manage to leave exactly at six in the evening every day no matter the number of cases you have to handle at a time.”

“Some would take that as doing the bare minimum,” Aaron said. That was, after all, what he had been doing.

“Why do you think I disliked you for so long?” Washington raised an eyebrow. When Aaron opened his mouth, he held up his hand. “But that has changed. You did plenty more than you needed to with the Weeks case.”

His lips curved up into a smile, this time more wry. Almost resigned at the edges. “I see now that you simply had no desire to go further. I, and Montgomery, have not given you the motivation.”

Aaron’s hands were trembling slightly in his lap. He swallowed hard, and nodded. “There was no reason to put my utmost efforts when I knew that they would go unacknowledged,” he said, voice soft.

“Indeed,” Washington nodded. His eyes softened, and Aaron saw, for the first time, the reason why Alexander had become so attached to the man. He realised, too, that the rot that had grown within Alexander was in fact worse than what he had thought, because he had been so close to denying himself this for the rest of his life.

Washington pushed the stack even closer to him, the edges of the paper nudging against Aaron’s chest. “This is your acknowledgment,” he said. “If you’re willing to take it.”

Was he? There was a part of Aaron that wanted to refuse: Alexander had been asked first; he was the second choice.

But what did that matter aside from the blow to his pride? His pride would recover; it was already on the road, because he knew that Alexander had given this up and hadn’t told him.

He held out his hand and smiled. “Do you have a pen, sir?”

Plucking the one out of his shirt pocket, Washington held it out to him. “There’s a clause in the contract that states that you’re not to call any of us ‘sir’ anymore,” he said.

“I’ll be less formal with you, sir,” Aaron stressed the title even as he took the pen, “the moment you stop treating me like one of your juniors.”

As Washington threw his head back and laughed, Aaron scanned through the contract. Most of it was the standard, including the non-disclosure agreement regarding information that was exclusively discussed amongst partners. Aaron signed his name on the dotted line.

“The spacing is going to look strange again,” Washington said as he took the papers Aaron held out to him. “‘Burr’ has fewer letters than ‘Montgomery’.”

His name at the door. The world tilted slightly to the side. For just a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Aaron blinked.

“That’s something that we all have to get used to,” Aaron said. He placed his hands flat on the desk and stood up. “Do you have anything else for me, sir?” 

“Yes,” Washington said. He rested his elbows on his desk. His smile was stranger than Aaron had ever seen it, with a soft edge that could be called fond if Aaron could believe the man capable of feeling such a thing towards him. “My wife Martha likes to meet all of the partners of the firm. Once your promotion is finalised, I’d like you to come over for dinner.” A rather pregnant pause.

“Along with anyone else you’d like to bring.”

Aaron blinked. “Of course I’ll bring Alexander along, sir,” he said, voice dry. “Does your wife miss him a great deal?”

Washington closed his eyes. He let out a heavy sigh. “I prefer if you keep those observational skills aimed at others instead of myself, Burr,” he said.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Aaron said. He glanced at the piece of paper he had just signed; the one Washington was now slotting into a plastic folder. He stuck out a hand.

When Washington shook it, there still wasn’t the climax he was expecting. A huge change with a single swipe of ink across white paper and a touch of hands. 

Alexander really was such a terrible influence.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

“Try to quit your habit of calling me ‘sir’ by the time you move to the main office, alright?” Washington said, shaking his head. He dropped back to his seat.

Already heading for the door, Aaron turned back. He flashed Washington a sharp smirk. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he repeated. “Sir.’

He couldn’t hear Washington’s voice cursing when he closed the door behind him, but he could almost imagine the spew of curses anyway. Alexander had told him plenty about Washington’s habits during his sudden losses of temper for the past week for him to recreate one such tantrum in his head perfectly.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he headed for the elevator, dodging a few colleagues and nodding absentmindedly to them. He ran the entire interview – and it _was_ an interview, there was no doubt about it – in his head. He tried to count the number of times where he practically baited Washington into a rage, and lost count. And yet the man didn’t raise his voice, and even smiled at him as he left.

Perhaps Washington just didn’t care enough about him to get angry. Or, more likely given the ghost of the pen’s weight in his hand, he believed that Aaron had the right to do so.

One or the other. A mixture of either. Aaron would find out eventually.

He had time.

Checking his watch, he turned left at the elevator lobby and headed for Alexander’s office. He knocked on the door and pushed it open.

“Lunch,” he said, and didn’t bother waiting for Alexander’s protests, walking over to the back of his chair and grabbing him by the collar of his suit jacket. “C’mon.”

“Wait!” Alexander yelped. He strained from Aaron’s grasp, fighting to type a few more letters on his laptop. Aaron reached over him and skimmed his fingers over the top of the screen.

“Laurens’s waiting,” he said.

“Okay, okay!” Alexander said. “Just let me save, dammit.”

They headed out to lunch together. Alexander kept shifting from foot to foot, practically hopping instead of walking. Aaron waited him out.

They had time. 

***

_July 1, Friday_

There was a picture in his office. A woman in a beautiful white dress, her white veil, exquisitely stitched with elaborate lace, tossed haphazardly over her shoulder. There was a thick fur coat around her shoulders. She was laughing and holding onto the arm of her new husband, face half-hidden by his shoulder. He was dressed in a dark blue tuxedo, the tails outside of the camera’s view, and his curls half-covered his face but couldn’t hide that he was laughing too. His arm was around her waist. The brilliant sunlight above them caught on the snow at their feet, and on the new rings on their hands.

Thomas slid the picture out of the frame. He slipped it into a folder with his other papers, and dropped them both into the plastic box along with everything else. The two pieces of paper where he had once printed and written his own words were folded now; those he tore into strips, and dumped them into the rapidly-filling wastebasket.

The D.A. office had held their farewell party for him last night, his official final day of service. But Thomas had worked in this office for far too long, and there was plenty still left for him to pack. Despite his efforts for the past week, despite all of the boxes of books and files and papers that were already cluttering up his room in James’s place, he had barely begun to make any headway with his desk.

He was on his knees beside his chair and cleaning out his drawers when he heard the familiar click of heels. Thomas didn’t look up. “If you’re going to say something inappropriate, can you at least close the door first?”

 _Thud, thud, thud, thud, click, thud, thud, thud_. He looked up to see Angelica looking down at him, her legs swinging from where she was perched on the edge of his desk. “You look good like that,” she drawled at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Not for your pleasure, sorry,” he said dryly. When she snorted, he shrugged. “Yeah, I know you’re not interested. I still remember, don’t worry.”

She made a soft, affirmative sound under her breath, but said nothing else. Thomas ducked his head back down and drew out the pile of plastic folders mixed with files, some of them with papers and some without, and started sorting through them.

“By the way,” he said as he was tossing a few crumpled sheets into the trash, “I sent in my official recommendation for you a month ago. The mayor told me yesterday that he’s taking it into full consideration, so…” he glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Don’t be surprised when you get a promotion in a week or so.”

“You did that?” she asked, surprise evident in her voice. “Even though I haven’t really spoken to you?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. He dumped a few of the plastic folders and files into the box – they would be useful in his new office, though he still didn’t need to scrimp and save when it came to those particular supplies. “You’re justified in choosing to not speak to me.”

Hesitating, he lifted himself up to his chair so he could look at her properly. “Besides… It’s the right thing to do. You deserve being D.A. more than anyone else in this place.” More than he ever did. He kicked the drawer closed and shut up those words with it, too.

“Well, I’m not going to say that’s not true,” Angelica conceded. “But what happened to not letting me get your position when you’re off your game?” She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not off my game,” Thomas pointed out. He nudged the corner of his desk with the tip of his shoe, sighing quietly. “I’m making this decision while I’m in my right mind, I promise.”

“Are you?” she asked. When he nodded, she sighed, tossing a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. “Convince me. What are you going to do now?”

“Starting up a new firm,” Thomas shrugged. “I haven’t gotten the name cards made yet, so I don’t have anything to show you. But the address is going to be in Bushwick, and…” he put his head in his hand, grinning at her wide and sharp. “If you ever want legal help, don’t come to me. You don’t fit the criteria.”

“Oh?” The other eyebrow joined the first.

“See, I’m going to have this sign at the door,” Thomas said. He tossed his head back and raised both hands, miming a large square, poster-sized. “‘If you can afford my services, please leave immediately.’”

There was another sign he had in mind, but that involved someone Angelica didn’t know at all, so there was no point in telling her at the moment. Not even James had met her.

Angelica stared at him. “You’re going _pro bono_ ,” she said, and started to laugh.

He didn’t blame her for the reaction; there was a reason why he hadn’t told a lot of people what he was going to do after his resignation. 

“Entirely pro bono,” he said, smirking at her out of the corner of his mouth. “It’s not like I’m going to need the money anyway, and it’s long past time I put what I have to good use.”

Instead of buying cars he didn’t need, especially since he was definitely staying in New York with its subways and buses for at least as long as James’s tenure as Judge lasted. He wasn’t going to buy houses he didn’t need either. With the exception of Monticello, all of those he had right now had been sold or were in the process of being sold, and whatever he gained from those would be enough – hopefully – to last him for the next seven or eight years, at least. Even inclusive of the rent for his new office. 

“Hah,” Angelica said. “Are you sure you’ll be fine?” When Thomas blinked at her, she sighed again, waving a hand vaguely in his direction. “Financially.”

That wasn’t really what she wanted to say. Thomas gave her a wry smile, and shrugged. “It’s not as though I’ll ever have to pay rent or utilities ever again,” he told her. When he had brought the subject up, James had told him that he had _bought_ the house, which meant that rent wasn’t a problem, and quibbling over less than a hundred every month for utilities was too much trouble. “There’s just food and clothes, and… they are expensive, but not _that_ expensive.”

Especially if he started buying off-the-rack and then going to his tailor for alterations instead of having everything made for him from scratch. He already had plenty of clothes anyway.

Her smile softened at the edges even as her eyes narrowed – she definitely noticed what he was doing. “That’s even more worrying to hear, you know that?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. “You’re practically dependent on him financially.”

“Not entirely,” Thomas shook his head. He pulled open the first drawer and started to sort out the mess of stationary there, avoiding her eyes. “I still have enough to live on my own if I want to. I just…” he hesitated, and snuck a glance at her out of the corner of his eyes. “I don’t want to.”

“That’s…” Angelica said. She hopped off the desk, flopping onto one of the chairs opposite him. Her eyes never left his. “There are a lot of things I can say in response to that, but I’ll just keep it to one: Are you sure you’ll be safe?”

“What, are you actually _worried_ about me?” Thomas exclaimed, placing a hand over his chest. When Angelica only gave him a flat look in response, he stopped putting on the show of mirth, leaning back heavily on his chair and staring up to the ceiling. “Do you want the honest version, or the censored version?”

“How about the censored one first?” she asked, tone so dry that he could practically feel the air thinning as vapour was sucked out of it. He laughed and raised both hands into an exaggerated shrug.

“We’re fine. Things are getting better.”

“That’s it?” Angelica said, eyebrows going straight up to her hairline. When Thomas nodded, grinning, she crossed her arms. “Okay, fine. Honest version, then.”

Glancing over to the door – it was locked – he leaned forward, elbows on the table. He tipped his head and raised a hand to his mouth, cupping it like he was telling her a secret: “We’re not having sex.”

“Say what,” she blinked.

“Fucking. Screwing. Banging. Tab A into slot B.” He made the gesture, index finger sliding into loosely-curled fist. “Bumping uglies. Making love, if you’re taking the romance novel term. Grinding. Dirty dancing. Fornicating. Rolling in the hay. Doing the hokey-pokey. Diving for pearls. Getting our rocks off. Going horizontal. Doing a lewd infusion—”

Her hand slapped over his mouth. “I get it, I get it,” she yelled. The anger in her voice was completely destroyed by her laughter. “How many sex euphemisms do you _know_?”

“Probably the same number you do,” Thomas said behind her hand. “We’re lawyers.”

“My job,” Angelica said very slowly, not taking her hand off his mouth, “didn’t come with a manual on sexual euphemisms. Is it part of the D.A. initiation? “

He peeled her fingers off one by one, and she let the hand drop back on the table. “More of a ‘particular euphemisms carry certain connotations that are useful to tap into’ thing,” he drawled. “You don’t use that?”

“Most of my cases don’t involve sex,” Angelica told him tartly. Thomas blinked, and then realised: oh, _her_ first few years as a lawyer didn’t take place in the South, where such euphemisms were essential.

When she sobered, gaze growing intense again even as she tucked another lock of hair behind her ear, Thomas straightened. “Is telling me why part of your honest answer?” Angelica asked.

“Yeah,” he shrugged. He spread out his hands again, leaving his elbows on the table. “Because I don’t want to.”

Because he simply couldn’t; because even the thought of James taking off his clothes would have him shaking and stumbling and gagging all at once. Because he still had nightmares of James pinning him to the bed and shoving his legs open while pushing inside him. Or dragging him onto his knees and forcing open his mouth, his throat, and the weight and taste of his cock on Thomas’s tongue and mouth. 

They still didn’t sleep in the same bed. Thomas made sure that he always dried himself completely after a shower. He never showed more skin than his hands and the two inches of throat and collarbone that were necessary for James to see the necklace he had made for him. James never came up to the second floor because he knew that Thomas had memorised the cadence of his footsteps. Out of necessity, not desire.

Angelica didn’t need to know any of that.

“Oh,” she said.

“It’s getting better,” Thomas said, rubbing a finger mindlessly over the edge of his desk. “He’s getting better.”

“If you actually want me to believe that, you have to tell me more.” Her voice was so quiet.

He shrugged again. “We kiss. We make out.” He lifted his head and gave her a small smile without even knowing if it was sincere. “When I tell him to stop, he listens. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

“That’s the _bare minimum_ of a relationship,” Angelica said. She slapped her hand over her face and dragged it downwards. She peered at him over the top of her fingers. “But… I guess things are different for the two of you, huh?”

“Well, you know me,” Thomas said. “I’ve never been much for fitting the conventions.”

“You were, actually,” Angelica said. When he blinked at her, she fetched him a wry smile. “You were wealthy, intelligent, idealistic, and you were constantly being proven right with all the special privileges that no one else has because of all those things. Your actions fit the definition of someone like that.”

“Elaborate way of calling me an asshole,” Thomas said dryly.

“I said you _were_ , didn’t I?” Angelica said, impatient and cross. She jabbed a finger in his direction. “You’ve changed.”

“Am I not supposed to when a tempest swept into my life?” Thomas asked, cocking his head to the side. “Am I not supposed to re-evaluate some things?”

“No one in the actual play re-evaluated anything because of the storm,” Angelica pointed out. “It’s always what happens afterwards.”

He waved a hand. “That’s essentially the same thing,” he said. “But if you insist… My tempest was a metaphorical one. Those are, generally speaking, more deadly. Wreak more destruction.”

“Don’t tell people who have survived through an actual hurricane that,” Angelica said. Then she sighed, way too heavily to be sincere, before she looked at him again. “I’m glad that… even if you’re not okay right now, you’re going to be eventually.” Her lips quirked into a half-smile. “Near future sort of eventually.”

Turning back to his still-open drawer, Thomas started rummaging through it looking for things that actually belonged to him instead of the office. “Shouldn’t you be happier if I’m _not_ going to be okay?” He tried to keep his voice steady, but suspected that he failed. “Given that you know exactly what I did.”

“Maybe,” Angelica said. She leaned back in her chair, stretching out her legs enough to thump her feet against the drawer. Some of the paperclips shook. “But I’ve never given much stock to the idea that you should blind yourself to someone’s story just because they did something bad,” she said. “Even if they did something terrible to someone I love a great deal.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. She had never spoken to him about his relationship with Sally. Not that she needed to, really: it was obvious from the bare glimpses he had of the two of them. They looked at each other in much of the same way James…

No, he wasn’t going to go there. Making that particular comparison was far too dangerous. He fished out a particularly long chain of paperclips – something he made whenever he just had to read something and therefore needed to keep his hands busy – and tossed it into to the plastic box.

“I’m glad she has you,” he said, and was surprised that he meant it, too.

“Yeah,” she said softly. Then she looked at him for a long moment, gaze intense and searching. Thomas tried to not duck his head behind the drawer. He closed it. “What you have with him… you’re sure it’s going to last?”

Thomas closed his eyes. He thought about what James had told him last week, those quiet and halting words that seemed to be dragged out of him as he sat on the couch, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“He fell for me when I was at my absolute lowest,” he said. When she raised an eyebrow, he shook his head. “Lower than you’ve ever seen me.” Right after Martha’s death, when the world that had made sense suddenly didn’t. “And he kept falling even through the times when I pulled myself back up, and fell again, and pulled myself up, and fell again.”

His shoulders shook. “There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me.” He could feel the weight of that nearly crushing him with even just a simple, off-hand mention. He dragged his hand through his hair. “Even tearing out a part of himself and then stitching it back together better than before. There’s nothing that can pull us apart now, I think.”

Angelica didn’t speak. Thomas moved on to packing up his last and bottom-most drawer. There were things here that he hadn’t used in years, things he had used only once and then stowed here and never used again – one of those laser pointers for that one occasion he’d had to make a presentation, one of those art tablets he had once bought because he thought he could sketch while at work, and, oddly enough, a bunch of silk ties. He dumped them all into the box.

“Okay,” Angelica said finally. She dragged her hand through her hair, and gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You don’t need me to tell you why I’m asking so much, right?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, because he did understand. She wanted to know if he would be fine; wanted to gather as much information as she could to reassure herself. Because she wouldn’t be able to help him. She wouldn’t allow herself to, no matter how much she would want to.

Not with Sally by her side. Not when Sally wanted nothing to do with him ever again, and would hate to have any reminders. Not when any help Angelica might offer could be seen as a betrayal by the person she loved the most in the world.

Hers wasn’t a position he envied at the moment. Though he did envy the grace with which she was handling it. Another reason why she deserved this position far more than he did.

“I’m going to marry her someday, you know,” Angelica said softly. She was staring at the desk, fingers tracing nonsensical shapes. “Not any time in the near future, but… someday.”

She lifted her eyes up and caught his gaze for a moment .She smiled. “You helped a little with that, by the way.”

“Did I?” Thomas blinked.

“Mm,” she nodded. “The money you’ve given back to her family…” The money they had accepted barely two weeks ago when all of them flew up to New York to sign in Washington’s office with the man and Angelica as witnesses. “That evens things out a lot between us. Makes things less…” She shrugged.

“Unequal?” he suggested. She nodded again.

He didn’t ask if he would be invited to the wedding; didn’t even think about it. He knew the answer already. “I’m glad,” he said again instead. 

Angelica smiled at him again. He looked at her, taking in the sight of those eyes bright with a brimming but contained joy, and locked it deep inside himself. He didn’t know if he would ever be privileged enough to see it again. He didn’t know if there was anything he could ever do in order to deserve this sight again.

After he was finished with clearing out the drawers, he went over to the walls and pulled off the paintings he kept there. All those went to a separate box. Angelica sat in the chair; she didn’t offer to help, and he didn’t ask her to. The silence between them was comfortable enough, and he knew what she was waiting for anyway.

It was almost a little funny, how little things had changed: they hadn’t spoken for weeks before this conversation, and they had fallen back to their usual patterns easily anyway. But it wasn’t the same as when she first returned from her sabbatical, much less before: there were no unspoken words hovering in the air, but it was thick enough with the sense of something missing anyway.

Like a phantom limb. One that Thomas shouldn’t miss because he was the one who cut it off in the first place.

Half an hour later, the office was clean of every trace of Thomas: the walls were stripped, the bookshelves were empty, the desk was clean, and even his laptop had been returned. He had two plastic boxes full to the brim to be brought back, five cardboard ones to be given to the administrative staff because all that was stationary and other items that belonged to the office, and three brimming bags of trash.

“Maggie told me that I can leave these here,” he said, nudging the cardboard boxes with a toe as he stacked the plastic ones together. He went to his briefcase and pulled out the hook and the rope, attaching it to the bottom box, and turned to her. 

“If you’re sending me off, want to help me with these?” he asked her with a lopsided smile. “Then I don’t have to make two trips?”

“So eager to leave already?” Angelica asked. She stood up and took the end of the rope anyway.

“More that I know I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Thomas said, amused. He grabbed the trash bags and swung them over his shoulder. “I should’ve been gone _yesterday_ , remember?”

“You know that no one would mind you staying another day,” she pointed out as they headed out of the office into the hallway. The wheels of the plastic boxes made little whirring sounds that punctuated her words weirdly. “Especially if you decide to, you know, work a little bit more.”

“That’s just free labour,” Thomas laughed as he pressed the button for the elevator. The doors opened immediately, and he let Angelica go in while nudging the boxes over the small curb with the tip of his shoe. “Though I’m already planning to do that, I prefer it to be on my own terms.”

“If you agree, then it would be on your own terms,” Angelica said, grinning out of the corner of her mouth.

Thomas didn’t deign that with a response, instead striding out with his head held overly high when the doors opened at the ground floor. Angelica’s laughter followed him, that rich rumbling chuckle again, and he grinned. After a moment, he ducked his head down and tried to hide the expression, because he was giving up a really lucrative job and he would rather not start rumours by looking too happy about it.

There was no one waiting for him at the doors of One Hogan Place. He had sold his cars, too.

“I’m going out for this,” he told Angelica, and headed out to the alleyway. He called for a cab while tossing the bags into the dumpster; James had told him that, wheels or not, dragging around two boxes all the way up from Irvington station to his house was a stupid idea, much less using the subway. And that he wasn’t exactly betraying his ideals if he did that.

But he was only convinced when Catherine said the same thing. And gave him an eye-roll free of charge along with it.

Angelica was still waiting there in the hallway. The boxes were tucked up against the reception counter, and she was chatting idly with Maggie. When Thomas stared at her, she shrugged.

“Just wanted to say goodbye properly,” she said. Her heels clicked on the marble floors.

When she hugged him, he was far too surprised to even begin to process the touch. Before, neither of them had ever been particularly free with such touches; not with each other. Now… now they had so many reasons to not touch, and yet here she was, offering this.

He wrapped his arm around her back and squeezed carefully. “Thank you,” he murmured into her hair.

She pulled away. Her smile was shaky at the edges. He looked away and shoved his hands into his pockets, blinking rapidly.

Outside, a car honked. They looked at each other.

“Maybe I’ll meet you in court one day,” Angelica said, voice so soft. “You’ll be on the other bench from now on.”

“Not so soon,” Thomas said, holding out a hand even as he bent to grab the rope tied to the plastic boxes. “Give me some time to get used to the view on the other side first, or else it won’t be fair.”

“Right,” Angelica nodded. After a moment, she laughed again, shaking her head. “I’m actually looking forward to that.”

The cab honked again. Thomas sighed, overly exaggerated, and smiled helplessly when he realised that he could still make Angelica laugh when he wanted her to.

“See you,” he said, and held out a hand.

Despite her askance stare, she took it. Her palm was dry and warm, and her grip just on the right side of strong. 

Five and a half years ago, he had stood in this very same lobby and introduced himself to her. The touch of her hand hadn’t changed.

Angelica broke away first. Thomas watched her until she disappeared from his view into the elevator. Then he waved to Maggie, giving her a smile, before he wheeled the boxes out to the waiting cab.

James wasn’t waiting for him back at the house. But Thomas had his own key. Besides, it was just a couple of boxes. It was just him leaving his job behind and never looking back.

It was only heading upstairs to hunt for his old wedding album, and sliding that picture that used to sit on his desk within it. It was only closing the book and placing it back onto the bookshelf. It was only looking for that picture Lafayette took of the three of them – himself, Thomas, and James – at La Guardia, Lafayette’s arm around his shoulders and James’s around his waist, Lafayette’s smile bright and brilliant and James caught mid-laugh, and putting it in the frame. It was only putting it into his briefcase for Monday at his new office.

Small things.

Thomas fell onto his bed. He kicked off his shoes. In the silence of the house, he could hear his own heart beating. Calm, steady.

He pulled off James’s tie and tossed it to the nightstand. Then he unbuttoned his shirt until he could tangle his fingers around the necklace, pressing leather and chain to his pulse. He fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s still an epilogue left (split into two parts, posted separately), but since this is the official ending to the fic, I guess it’s time for me to say this.
> 
> Jefferson’s arc revolves around the idea – like what Angelica said in the last scene and inspired by something Daveed said – if a man with as much privilege, intelligence, and constant validation could ever admit his mistakes and become a better person. The answer is, obviously, yes, but it takes a lot of work and he needs to be broken down to the very core of himself. Because, for someone like him, learning empathy and growth is very hard. His arc doesn’t end here; there’s still a long road for him to go, all the way to the end of his life, before he could redeem himself entirely. Whether or not he actually manages to absolve himself of what he did to Sally is entirely up to you to judge, as per most moral decisions in this fic.
> 
> Madison’s arc is an exploration of both his place in the play and something Oak said about his ‘laser focus.’ Madison, in _Hamilton_ , is simultaneously Jefferson’s hype man and the guy who manipulates him the most. Aside from his very brief relationship with Hamilton – happening during the intermission – he only has Jefferson. That, and history – gleaned mostly from _A Slave in the White House_ and bits and pieces from other texts – shows that this man genuinely doesn’t _care_ sometimes about people around him; there are things important to him, and there’s Everything Else. Pile all that together, and it’s an arc like Jefferson’s except that I’m seeing if I can break him without losing the core of his characterisation. He’s also the one person who ended up _worse_ at the end than when he started, and that’s entirely deliberate.
> 
> Burr’s arc centres on the one line in _Wait for It:_ “I’m the one thing in life I can control.” How far does that control go? How far _can_ and _should_ that control go? Burr, in the musical, is constantly standing still, constantly lying on wait. His arc is giving him the impetus for him to move, to get out of his stagnation. It also involves the very complex relationship between Burr and Hamilton in the musical – that tangled knot of resentment and admiration – and me adding the extra element of Burr having so much power over Hamilton and seeing the fireworks that will occur.
> 
> Hamilton’s arc, in contrast to the other three, is my curiosity regarding the musical as a whole instead of just the character himself. Hamilton, as the protagonist, is more often than not painted as being in the right. But what if he is _wrong_? Like Jefferson, he’s used to being right, so what happens when he’s very, very wrong? All of those admirable traits of his – the passion, the constant climb up the social ladder, the need for a legacy to leave behind – become twisted when he’s wrong, and has been wrong for a long while. That’s shown a little in the Reynolds Pamphlet bit, but not enough for me, so I expanded on it more. It’s also an exploration of what happens to a character when I make them tear themselves away from their support systems.
> 
> Sally’s arc is motivated by one word: _catachresis_. This is my attempt to undo that, in my own little way. Her arc is about giving her a voice, giving her a chance to be a person instead of a symbol to be fought over, a narrative of her own that’s not immediately tied to her abuser’s. It’s also an exploration of a trope I’ve always felt distaste towards – the kind, decent, and frankly _gentle_ person who is abused, and who forgives their abuser because the author wants to give them the moral high ground and deliver a ‘lesson’ about ‘moving on’ and ‘being a better person’. It’s also very much about working-class issues no one talks about online; the micro-aggressions and habits and thought processes that chip away the soul piece by piece. Sally’s story is, in many ways, mine.
> 
> More notes on the writing of this fic will come at the end of the epilogues. 
> 
> PS: Replies will come really, really late because I’ve been ridiculously busy preparing for my vacation: i.e. finishing up the last of work so I can go in peace, writing, editing, all that stuff. I’m posting this in Dubai enroute to New York, actually, heh. I’m going to see _Hamilton_ and (maybe) see Daveed. I love you guys, and replies _will_ come eventually. I haven’t forgotten; I’ve just been busy.
> 
> Also, Chapter 31/Epilogue 1 will be posted either earlier or later, depending. Usually I post at 7-8pm Wednesday night, but that’s literally when I’ll be watching _Hamilton_. I’m going to gun for earlier, but no promises otherwise. (Yes, I am pedantic about schedules. I like being consistent.)


	31. Epilogue: it’s quiet uptown (the storm is over) [Part One]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Nothing_ in this bit. Not even the standard mind-screw warning! (There is a _lot_ of fluff, though.) It’s also 21k words in _one section._ (I’ve chopped it up into two chapters.)

_June 16, 2017, Friday_  
  
Early summer in The Forest, Charles City County, Virginia: scent new-bloomed flowers and crushed grass underfoot, the sweet fragrance of garlic, onions and greens being harvested, and a breeze carrying a faint hint of the lake in the middle of the estate. To the right was the massive house that Father had built: three storeys high with two long wings stretching outwards, casting shadows upon the picnic grounds.

“We used to creep in here like thieves,” Sally said, leaning against the Subaru that Angelica had rented after they’d landed in Richmond. “We had to be quiet. We had to not let anyone see us. We had to not leave footprints.”

Her lips curved into a smile, and she met Angelica’s eyes out of the corner of her own. “I used to think of it as a game.”

“You’re too damned young to start reminiscing like an old man, girlie,” Jimmy said, coming out from the backseat of the car. He had chosen to ride with Angelica instead of going with their mother and other brothers in Robbie’s car because, out of all the boys, he knew Angelica best. “Leave it for when you’re fifty or something like that.”

“It ain’t reminiscing when I’m telling someone ‘bout something she has no idea of,” Sally shot back tartly, glaring at her brother. “And it makes no sense to put age limits on things the laws don’t put limits on.”

“Did you think it was fun, Jimmy?” Angelica cut in, most likely to stop herself from being caught in the midst of another sibling battle royale.

“Nah,” Jimmy said. He headed for the boot and pulled out two of the picnic baskets, handing one of them to Sally. “I always knew that we were a dirty little secret, and I knew why, too.” His lips twisted, and he shook his head. “Hard to find anything fun when you know ‘bout that.”

“He didn’t really try very hard to keep us a secret,” Sally said, voice wry. “’Bout everyone in town knew whose kids we were.”

“Hard not to when we’ve all got his eyes,” Jimmy added.

“Yeah, but it just made shit worse,” Sally said. As Angelica locked the car – which probably wasn’t necessary – she hefted the basket – mostly sandwich materials – up her shoulder and followed them further south, near the very edge of the forest that the plantation was named for. “People in town all think real high of him, so…” She shrugged. “Momma’s always the one who come off looking bad.”

“Momma don’t appreciate you talking ‘bout her behind her back,” a familiar voice said. Sally’s head shot up, and she grinned at the sight of her mother sprawled all over the grass, not bothering to wait for Robbie and Pete to finish putting down the picnic blankets.

“They were just educating me,” Angelica said. She plucked the basket out of Sally’s hands and set it down at the very edge of the blankets. “Sally hasn’t told me very much about what her life was like with all of you.”

“That’s funny,” Pete said, flopping down onto the grass and rolling a couple of times in it, getting stalks stuck all over his thick curls. “What’d you two do then, if not talk ‘bout us?”

“Does Momma have to explain the birds and the bees to you again, Pete?” Jimmy raised an eyebrow at his younger brother, holding the picnic basket over him like he was threatening to drop it on Pete’s face. “Or all that education you’ve got can’t teach you how to figure out the bees and the bees?”

Pete’s brows drew together. Sally slapped her hand over her face, dragging it down even while Angelica ducked her head and shoved her knuckles into her mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” Pete said after half a minute or so. “You’re disgusting, Jimmy.” He tried to elbow his brother at the back of the knee, but Jimmy dodged. “That’s disgusting.”

“Never thought you’d be so close-minded,” Jimmy mocked.

“It ain’t got nothing to do with bees and bees or birds and birds,” Pete protested, now scrambling to his feet to try to tackle Jimmy. “It got everything to do with Sally being our sister and I don’t wanna think ‘bout that!”

“Sally is right here,” Sally said, raising her hand. “Sally don’t appreciate being talked ‘bout like she ain’t here.”

“Right,” Pete said. He abruptly stopped chasing Jimmy, twisting his body and using the momentum to throw himself bodily onto the ground barely an inch away from Sally. Sally’s nose scrunched up in disgust at the small explosion of grass blades. “By the way, I’m all disappointed you’ve gotten yourself a bee instead of a bird.”

Despite his teasing tone, Sally froze. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Who else is going to bring a son-in-law home for Momma to threaten every time we see him, eh?” Pete flung out a hand. “For all of us to threaten?”

“I have three sons,” Momma said, voice dry. “That’s more than enough men in my life, I’d say.”

Pete ignored her, reaching out to grab Sally by the shirt and flap the cloth uselessly in the breeze. “We’ve been stocking up on shovels, girlie,” he said, voice pitching up into a whine. “What’s we gonna do with them all, huh? How could you do this to us?”

“Did you actually forget the number of shovels you’ve all shoved into my face,” Angelica said.

Five pairs of eyes turned towards her. Angelica raised an eyebrow, and continued sipping the wine she had opened and poured into a plastic cup while Pete and Jimmy were fooling around as usual. Sally slapped her hand over her face again. Then, for good measure, she pushed Pete away by a hand on his face, ignoring his yelping protest.

“Was that even supposed to be a pun,” Jimmy said. It sounded less like a question than exasperation crafted into words.

Before Angelica could answer, Robbie spoke up – the first words he’d said since they all arrived here: “Sorry ‘bout the cup, and the quality of the wine.” He looked at Angelica, and there was something dark in his eyes. “Sure it’s not what you’re used to. We got the stuff from a common supermarket.”

A deliberate pause. “Didn’t think we’d have a high-class guest, you see,” he continued.

“It’s fine,” Angelica said. “It’s better than some I’ve drank. You picked well.”

Sinking his elbows into the grass, Robbie dug into his pocket for his cigarettes. He lit one, and blew the smoke up to the skies. “I know Momma invited you to come along,” he said, voice quiet because Robbie stopped yelling when he was upset years ago, after he finished college. “But I can’t stand seeing you sitting there, joking ‘round with my brothers ‘bout fucking my sister.”

“ _Robbie_ ,” Momma’s voice was like a whip, cutting through the air. “That’s enough.”

Turning to look at her, Robbie shrugged. He dropped fully onto his back, looking away. “Just saying what I’m thinking, Momma,” he said, sullen.

Jimmy stood up, walking over to their oldest brother. He nudged Robbie’s shoulder with a foot, and Robbie sighed, pushing himself up even as Jimmy sat down. His head ended up on Jimmy’s shoulder, long body contorting slightly so as to fit. He stubbed his cigarette out on the grass and tossed it to the side.

“We ain’t got a problem with her being here, Rob,” Jimmy said, running his nails lightly over Robbie’s shaved scalp. “Neither do you, really.”

“If you want, I can go,” Angelica said. She made to put her cup down, but Sally caught her wrist before she could.

“No,” she said, keeping her eyes on her brothers. “Stay. I want you here.”

“But I don’t want to spoil the gathering,” Angelica whispered back. “This is supposed to be for all of you.”

“Yeah, and if it’s for me too then I want you here,” Sally said. She flashed Angelica a small smile, squeezing her wrist tight for a moment. “‘Sides, this ain’t ‘bout you, I think. You leaving won’t help.”

“Nah, it’s ‘bout her, kind of,” Robbie said. He rolled his eyes. “Y’know I can hear you.”

“How ‘bout you tell us all what this _is_ ‘bout, then?” Momma said. She was gentler now, reaching out to take one of Robbie’s hands and rubbing her fingers over the webs between his. Pete said down beside her, sighing.

“It just don’t make sense,” Robbie said. He turned away from them, burying his face into Jimmy’s shoulder. “Been a year since I heard it, and it just don’t make sense.” 

“You gotta tell us more than that, luv,” Momma murmured.

“Being here,” Robbie shrugged. “Having all this money.” His head jerked towards Angelica without looking at her. “Having her here after she went through all the trouble to help us settle the contracts and all that shit and without asking anything for it.”

Last year, back when everything was terrible and dark, Jimmy had poured sunlight down on her by telling her how he’d made use of Levi Weeks. He had told her, too, that Robbie had had to do the same thing.

Now, looking at Robbie, Sally wondered if what Robbie had done was less like Jimmy, and more like her. She swallowed the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat.

Letting go of Angelica’s hand, she crawled forward until she was pressing up against Robbie’s other side. She wasn’t very close to her oldest brother – the age gap of ten years was a little too wide for that – but she knew him and she loved him. He was family. Her hand found his now, and she gripped it tight.

“I know you’ve had the longest time to get used to the shit we used to be in,” she said softly. Then she caught Momma’s eyes, and gave her a wry smile. “Out of us four kids, I mean. But… the change’s real, Robbie. Everything you see here? It’s ours now.”

“Ain’t easy to believe,” Pete said abruptly. When Sally looked at him, he was sitting with his knees hugged tight against his chest. He sighed, and ran a hand through his shaved head. “Nothing’s really changed ‘cept for us, but everything’s changed. There should be something. Something big.”

“If you don’t mind me saying…” Angelica spoke up, her voice quiet and unobtrusive. Five pairs of eyes turned to her, and Sally tried to give a reassuring smile. “Most of the time when big things happen, there’s nothing big to herald them. No announcements, no flashes of lightning.”

Her head dipped down, and she sighed. “I’ve won cases for people. I’ve lost cases, too. Those wins and losses changed the lives of the people involved in them.” She paused. “But no matter how much their lives changed, nothing really happened on the outside.”

Robbie opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Momma laughed.

“She’s right,” she said, nodding to Angelica. “When he died,” there was no need for any of them to ask who ‘he’ was; there was only one ‘he’ Momma spoke about in that tired, heavy tone, “I thought there should be some kind of storm. Or during his funeral. Some kind of sign to tell me that it’s real, that I’m free.”

Shrugging, she ran a hand through her hair. “Sun keeps shining and rising and setting, luv,” she said, looking at Robbie. “World and life are both too big for everyone to have a ceremony when important things happen in their life.”

Throwing his head back, Pete laughed. “It’d be real nice if everyone could get a nice storm ‘round them whenever something major happened,” he said. “But then it’d always be storming, and that’d make everything even worse.”

Sally stretched out a leg, kicking him lightly on the ankle. “If you can say that, then why do you still think it’s hard to believe?”

“Words like that are easier to say than to swallow, girlie,” Pete said, giving her a smile that made him look far older than his twenty-three years.

“Look over there,” Jimmy said. He was pointing to the edge of the forest, nudging Robbie with his shoulder until he looked. “We used to come from there through a little gate. We had to go across the whole forest, and there’d be a little pebble path that’d lead us to the backdoor of the main house. Path’s gone, Rob. Think I can’t find my way through the forest now, ‘cause things have changed.”

He closed his eyes. “But I can still remember how it was like. The smell of the forest. You and me trying to make sure Pete and girlie didn’t go haring off after some squirrel or berry they saw. Momma shushing us. Even that time right after Sally was born, all the birds flying off the trees because she was crying so loud.” He opened his eyes and smiled at Robbie. “Real as yesterday, even if it’s only in my head and yours.”

“It ain’t gonna disappear,” Sally said, picking up the thread. She remembered the forest well, too. “What we went through ain’t gonna disappear. It’ll always be there. But we ain’t… we ain’t gotta keep going on like that. We ain’t gotta let how it was before control how we’re gonna go on now. ‘Cause we walk into the mansion by the front door now, yeah?”

Walk through the front door. Go into town with their heads held high and without fear of slurs or dirty looks. Going into bookstores and buying the books instead of grabbing one and hiding in the corner to devour it in an hour before putting it back. Going into restaurants without need of fearing the wait staff asking them point-blank if they could afford to pay. Not having to look through the menu and do mental calculations in their heads to make sure that they had enough to pay and to leave a small tip. Not having to write ‘sorry’ on the receipt when they didn’t have enough for the tip. 

Maybe they’d still go through the backdoor. Maybe there’d be some people who would still be asses to them. Maybe they’d still count every cent, no matter how much they had. But those habits wouldn’t define them. Not anymore.

Lifting his head, Robbie wiped his forearm over his eyes. He shook his head. “When the hell did all of you grow up?” he asked. “Especially you,” he looked at Sally. There was something wet in his eyes.

“They’ve been grown for a while,” Momma said before Sally could retort, sounding amused and terribly fond. She stretched out her legs, leaning back with her hands on the grass. “All of ‘em, even our little girlie. You don’t gotta be the one to take care of ‘em anymore, luv. They can do it by themselves.”

“Though I’ve had help,” Sally said. She reached out a hand towards Angelica, and tugged hard until the older woman was lying on the grass next to her. 

“Yeah,” Robbie said softly, running a hand over his head. His lips quirked into a small smile. “You did.”

“I’m glad to be the help too,” Angelica said. Sally gave her a smile, and hoped the look in her eyes was enough; she couldn’t do more while her brothers and mother were still here. There was still a wall between acceptance and tolerance, and she didn’t want to push any of them over to the other side.

“Speaking of which,” Pete said, jabbing his hand into the air. “I’m… uh…” When five pairs of expectant eyes turned towards him, he faltered, and rubbed a hand over his neck. “I’m quitting my job come end of July.”

He winced at the chorus of “What?” echoed around him.

“Wait, wait,” he said, flapping both hands at them. “Let me finish. I know I’ve got a good job. I know I’ve been working at it for barely nine months. But, honestly, I’m going to _die_ if I have to keep on being an accountant.”

“But you’re good at numbers,” Robbie pointed out, like he surely had many times before. “And money.”

“Just because I’m good at them doesn’t mean I like doing them,” Pete sighed. He tugged at a curl. “I’m kind of thinking of going to law school?”

“What do you mean by ‘kind of’?” Momma asked, eyes narrowed.

“I already got accepted into Columbia Law?” Pete asked, giving her a sheepish smile. 

“That’s more than just _thinking_ ,” Robbie cried. He leaned forward, grabbing Pete by the sleeve and practically dragging him closer. “When did you start doing that?”

“Thought about it first when Sally called us about the money that first time,” Pete said, struggling against Robbie’s grip half-heartedly. “Then I started looking into applications after we signed.”

Sally blinked. “That’s… a long time ago.” They had signed the contract last June, for Christ’s sake.

“It’s something I’ve been interested in for a while?” Pete offered along with a small, shy smile. “Besides…” He ducked his head and took a breath. When he looked up again, his eyes were on Angelica. “I think it’s better if… we have a lawyer in the family, given the money we’re now dealing with. No offence.”

Raising both hands in the universal gesture of surrender, Angelica shook her head. “None taken,” she said, and gave him a wry smile. “But that’s not your only reason, right?”

“Like I said, I’m actually interested,” Pete said, rolling his eyes. 

“What would you want to specialise in?” Angelica asked, leaning forward. Sally snuck an arm around her waist, and Angelica didn’t push her away.

“Corporate law, probably,” Pete said, tugging harder on the curl. “Mergers and acquisitions. I like numbers and I like seeing how companies work. Just not the financial side. But…” He shrugged again. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to see.”

“Okay,” Momma said. She chuckled and shook her head. “Let him go, Robbie. He’s old enough to figure out what he wants, and there’s no need for him to worry ‘bout the money to pay for law school anymore.”

“That’s actually why I decided to apply last year,” Pete said, rubbing a hand over his upper lip now. “I was actually planning to hold out at my current job for a few more years until I could save up enough to pay for law school, but… Now I don’t really have to hold out. Which is good, because I ain’t kidding when I say the job was killing me.”

“Told you that it was a bad idea,” Robbie sighed, letting go of Pete’s sleeve finally. “You just don’t have the temperament for that kind of job.”

“Like you said, I’m good at numbers,” Pete threw back, the wry smile on his lips blunting the edges of the words.

“If you like…” Angelica hesitated. “I can email some of the Columbia professors. Put in a word for you. Or introduce you to some people for internships and such things, if you’re interested.”

Pete blinked at her. After a moment, he laughed, and shook his head. “Hell no,” he chuckled, flopping back to lie on his back on the grass. “Don’t get me wrong. That’s nice of you to offer. But I’d rather let my work speak for myself, you know what I mean?”

Jimmy burst out laughing immediately, and Sally pressed her hand against her mouth because, yeah, she knew why her second oldest brother was so amused. They really were all so similar to each other in their need for independence, that tugging urge within them to carve out their own path on their own without the help of anyone else.

Even Robbie was laughing.

“We know,” she said after the giggles subsided. “But Pete, listen. Sometimes you have to take someone else’s hand and let them pull you up so you don’t end up drowning.” Her smile widened. 

“But I’m not drowning right now,” Pete protested. He looked at Angelica, and jabbed his finger in her direction. “Promise me you’re not going to do anything to help.”

“Promise,” Angelica said immediately, because when she learned something, she learned it wholly and completely. Her smile softened as she cocked her head at Sally’s youngest older brother. “I’m not going to lift a finger unless you ask. And if you do, I’ll tell you,” she nodded to Momma, “Ms Hemings.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me ‘Momma’?” Sally’s mother protested.

“At least once more,” Angelica said, giving her a polite smile. “Ms Hemings.”

Momma rolled her eyes even as Pete and Jimmy laughed. Even Robbie was shaking his head, fist pressing against his forehead in an attempt to control his mirth. Sally turned her head, burying her face against Angelica’s arm to muffle her own giggles.

“Alright, alright,” Momma said, sounding exasperated. “Start eating, all of you. We’re here for a picnic, and the food’s getting cold.”

Robbie snorted. “Hate it break it to you, Momma,” he drawled, “but it’s a picnic. Food’s meant to be eaten cold.”

Lobbing a cherry tomato at him – which he caught with his mouth because Sally’s brothers were all gross – Momma sighed, far too heavy to be serious, before she began to pull out the food from the baskets. After a couple of moments, punctuated by obnoxious chewing, Robbie went to help, dragging Jimmy with him. Pete was still face-down in the grass.

“By the way,” Jimmy said once everything was set out to Momma’s liking and they had food in their hands, “you know the thing Pete said ‘bout sons-in-law?”

“What?” Pete blinked. He was lying on his stomach, propping himself up with his elbows and staring at Jimmy. Sally stared too. Robbie froze in the middle of his bite.

“Might get one from me, Momma,” Jimmy said, dropping the bomb casually. He chomped on his messy sandwich – a small tower of ham, roast beef, tomatoes, and more mustard than anyone should be able to stomach – and chewed. “Or daughter-in-law. Can be either.”

He shrugged.

“Okay,” Momma said. She continued eating her green bean and potato salad calmly. “Good that you’re finally telling us, luv.” 

“’Course you already know, Momma,” Jimmy laughed. “Rob, you’re gonna catch flies.”

“Can you, like, give me a warning before you tell people these things?” Robbie burst out. He put down his carrot orzo, fork clanging against the edge of the plastic container. “Seriously, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Oh, so you didn’t know too?” Pete asked, leaning forward.

“I knew,” Robbie waved a hand at him impatiently. Sally rolled her eyes – if Pete thought that there was anything secret between Robbie and Jimmy, he was being even dumber than usual. “But there’s a difference between me knowing and… everyone else knowing.”

“Stop looking down on us,” Sally said, kicking him on the shin. “I knew, too, okay?” Jimmy’s perfect willingness to go on dates with Levi Weeks had kind of implied that. Plus there was the fact that he said that he’d _told_ Levi Weeks that he wasn’t interested in men, not that he _actually_ wasn’t. “Angelica knew too.”

“Yup,” Angelica nodded, voice muffled through her mouthful of buttered corn cob.

“So… that was just for me, then?” Pete said, sounding wry.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Jimmy said, taking another bite of his sandwich. He gave Pete a sidelong glance, lips twitching into a grin. “You remember one of my friends from high school? Jake?”

“Uh huh,” Pete nodded, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “That scrawny white guy?”

“Mmhmm,” Jimmy nodded. He nudged Pete’s shoulder with a foot. “Not just a friend.” He snuck a glance at their mother, half-grin tugging on his lips. “Momma nearly caught us once.”

“Did you forget that I actually did catch you two something like five times?” Robbie said before Momma could even say a word. He dropped his head onto his knees. “Because you never learned to lock the door.”

“I _did_ ,” Jimmy said, kicking Robbie on the shin. “But we share a room, and you’re the ass with the key who didn’t know how to _knock_.”

“Lies and slander,” Robbie growled, starting a foot-wrestle with Jimmy even though they were both adults. “I knocked but no, neither of you could hear me over the sound of your moaning.” 

Immediately, Sally slapped her hands over her ears. “Oh my God, please shut up,” she hissed at them. “I don’t wanna think ‘bout Jimmy and sex in the same sentence.”

Angelica’s hands closed over hers, and her voice was deep and terribly amused as she said, “If we have to keep things family-friendly, so do you.” She pressed a kiss to Sally’s cheek. Sally tried to bat her away, but ended up giggling instead.

Pete was slowly and steadily smacking his head into the grass, scattering bits and pieces of soil and grass everywhere. “Stop breaking my illusion that y’all are virgins who never have sex,” he said, voice muffled. “I don’t wanna think ‘bout that.”

Scooting closer, Jimmy put his legs squarely on top of Pete’s shoulders, shoving him down hard onto the ground. He grabbed a potato from one of the containers and chewed on it, then smacked his lips.

Momma slapped the back of his head. “Ow!”

“Stop teasing your siblings,” she scolded. “Especially ‘bout things like that.” She raised an eyebrow at her second son. “You’re making _me_ listen to it too. How’d you think I feel?”

“Sorry, Momma,” Jimmy said immediately, ducking his head. 

“Y’all are messes,” Robbie grumbled, dropping back onto the grass. 

“Come off it,” Pete snorted, wriggling out from beneath Jimmy’s weight. “You’re just as bad.” Robbie tried to kick him in the face as a response, but Pete rolled away, covering himself in more grass in the process.

“They’re always like that,” Sally informed Angelica, her hands falling down by her side as she heaved a sigh. “That’s why I don’t want them all to meet you. I can’t bring them anywhere. They’re embarrassing.”

“I have siblings too, you know,” Angelica said, lips twitching. 

“Your sisters know how to behave,” Sally argued.

Leaning in, Angelica poked her on the cheek. “Don’t get in the middle of a Schuyler sister fight,” she advised. “We play dirty. Especially now that Eliza’s halfway to making Maria an honest woman, so she joins in, too.”

“Wait,” Pete said. He lifted himself up, eyes darting between Sally, Angelica and Jimmy. “Wait, wait, your sister’s gay, too?”

“Bisexual,” Angelica corrected. “But she’s marrying a woman.”

“Okay, so,” Pete said. He frowned, looking as if he was thinking hard. His finger stretched out and started drawing some sort of strange crooked line between Jimmy, Sally, Angelica, and the air beside Angelica. “All of you who turned out not-straight were in New York. Is it something in the water?”

“Jesus Christ,” Jimmy rolled his eyes. He sent his foot crashing down on Pete’s head, nearly grinding his face into the grass. Luckily, he had already taken off his shoe. “I _just_ told you about my high school boyfriend! Which part of that is New York water?!”

“He’s going to fail out of law school,” Robbie pronounced. “Lawyers are clever people. He’s so stupid they’re going to throw him out after the first semester.”

“Fuck you guys,” Pete mumbled into the dirt. He lifted a hand with middle finger extended. “I had a 4.0 GPA, okay?!”

“Me too,” Robbie and Jimmy chorused.

All three boys turned to Sally. “Keeping steady at 4.0,” she reported, giving them a peace sign. There had been a few moments in the past year where she had been afraid she wouldn’t get an A in some of her classes, but she had managed anyway.

“The Hemings tradition holds,” Robbie nodded sagely. The effect was ruined by the fork he was still gripping between his teeth. “Good, good, very good.”

“Which means your 4.0 means nothing, little bro,” Jimmy said, sounding far too gleeful as he poked Pete on the jaw with his toe. “You’re still the village idiot of the family.”

“I hate y’all,” Pete sulked. “I even like my colleagues better than you guys. They’re boring, but at least they respect me.”

“This place is so nice,” Momma said, and the sound of her voice silenced all of her children immediately as they turned their attention to her. She took a sip of her wine, managing to look elegant despite the plastic cup. “Smell the flowers. Listen to the wind.” 

She paused, and then gave all of them a pointed look. “Which I can’t do because y’all are being so damned noisy.”

“Sorry, Momma,” came a chorus of four voices. Jimmy lifted his foot off of Pete’s head, and Pete sat up, picking bits of grass and soil from his stringy beard. Sally could feel Angelica convulsing beside her. She patted her on the back gently.

“Drill sergeants have nothing on Momma,” Sally told her, _sotto voce_. “Drill sergeants have to shout. Momma don’t shout.”

Angelica’s silent laughter turned into something like a howl, and she buried her face into Sally’s shoulder. Sally pulled her closer and kissed her hair, trying to hide her grin. 

Momma continued to sip her wine serenely. Meanwhile, Robbie had been roped into helping Jimmy get all of the leaves and dirt and grass out of Pete’s hair. They were going to start an argument about Pete cutting his hair in about two minutes; she knew her brothers by now.

The sun was very bright above their heads. It was summer again, and though it was a year later than she thought she’d be able to bring Angelica to meet her family properly, it didn’t really matter.

She was here. They were all here, in their father’s estate that was now rightfully theirs. The sun was very bright and there were no terrible shadows. The ocean was very far away and the lake on the estate was calm today.

Maybe later they could bring Angelica to explore the forest together. Or they could go and visit the overseer in the plantation that was now theirs to control. Or they could go to church and let Momma brag about all of them like she always did whenever they came to visit her.

There was so much to do. There was so much they could do.

When Angelica’s laughter stopped, Sally met her eyes as she lifted her head. Their lips met in a soft kiss. When her brothers let loose a series of cat-calls mixed with overly-loud ‘ewwww’s, she gave them the middle finger and didn’t stop. She could hear her mother’s quiet laughter.

Angelica was very warm. Sally was, too.

***

 _June 16, 2017, Friday_  
  
“Aaron signed her up for ballet. I tried to stop him, honest, but Theo actually wanted ballet classes, so I had to give up. Even though I think that she has too many classes for someone her age. She’s literally five. Okay, nearly six, but still.” Alexander rolled his eyes, shifting his back a little higher against the marble, careful to not scuff the grass too much beneath him. “She also wants to go for aikido classes, too, and I have no idea what that is and how she even learned about it. She doesn’t go on the Internet and we watch every movie with her. If it’s one of her classmates that’s telling her about how awesome it is to punch or kick people in the face, I’ll…” He paused.

“Well, I’ll do something mean but age-appropriate to them, I guess.” He laughed quietly.

Stretching out his hands, he stared up. Summer meant longer days, so the position of the sun didn’t really help him figure out how late it was. He checked his watch; nearly six. He had left work earlier than usual today.

“Anyway, Aaron’s doing fine,” he continued. “The office is busier than ever, and a lot of it is because of Aaron’s name over the front door. And, oh, I’ve officially been transferred over as Mr Green’s junior partner, by the way. Aaron had a roaring fight with the General about that. Something about how if he’s not allowed to have me as his junior partner, neither is Washington? Something about hypocrisy or conflict of interests. Or both.” He tapped his lip. “Probably both.”

Laughing again, he shook his head. “Honestly, I wasn’t really listening. You can’t really blame me for it, right? It’s _Aaron_ who got into a _shouting match_ over _me_. I think I’m supposed to feel insulted, but I just feel kind of flattered.” And warm. Very warm. The kind of heat he felt whenever Aaron slid a hand into his hair and called him _good boy_. 

He scrubbed his cheeks to try to get rid of the rising flush. It didn’t really work, and so he scrambled to unfold his legs so he could stand.

“I gotta go back now,” he said, resting his hand on top of the tombstone. “We’re going to have Theo’s birthday party tomorrow morning. All of her honorary uncles are going to be there. I think Herc is betting John something like fifty bucks that Theo is going to go away with more than ten strands of Gil’s hair. She really likes his hair.”

Patting the tombstone gently, he took a step back. “Well, that’s the latest update, ‘Dosia,” he said. A year ago, when he had first decided to start this habit, he had asked Aaron if it was okay for him to use a nickname for his wife. Because, well, if Theo had a nickname, then so should her mother. Aaron had laughed and told him to go ahead as long as it wasn’t too silly.

‘Dosia was a pretty name. Theo had thought so, too.

“See you on Monday evening,” he told Aaron’s wife, smiling because he was never sure if she was really here or not. “Hug my mom for me if you see her, yeah? You don’t have to look for her or anything – you really, really don’t have to – but if you end up bumping into her wherever you guys are… Yeah. I’ll owe you.” He paused. “Oh, and Peter, too. Hug him real hard for me, okay?”

From the very first day Alexander had decided to come here to visit Theodosia alone, he had ended off in the same way. He was sure that Theodosia, if she was listening, had already memorised his ending lines. He certainly had. 

But it was important to him. As important as it had become to him to talk to Theodosia once a week. The day didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t allow more than ten days to go in between visits. Theodosia deserved to hear another voice other than Aaron’s, even if they were talking about the same things.

Grabbing his backpack, he swung it onto his shoulders and headed for the subway. It was a muggy summer in New York, with low-lying clouds and humidity so thick in the way that the heat became oppressive. There was sweat beading on his hairline already, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. 

The train and the bus were worse than the outside despite the air-conditioning. Alexander gripped tight onto his handhold and tried to not glare too much at everyone.

It was nearly seven in the evening when he reached Richmond Hill. His hand was already scrambling for his keys – which Aaron had given to him when Alexander sold his apartment in Brooklyn – and he closed his fingers around a piece of metal when the door swung open. 

“Hammy!” Theo greeted from the top of Gil’s shoulders. Her hands were buried in his loose hair, and he was grinning as he headed down the steps, closing the door behind him and opening the gate.

“Hello, Theo,” Alexander greeted once he could reach for her, steadying her by her arms as he lifted himself up to his toes to kiss her on the cheek. “You’re very tall today.”

“I have a nice horse,” Theo told him solemnly. Her hands tugged on Gil’s hair, and Gil laughed.

“Yes, yes, you do,” Gil said. He cocked his head at Alexander. “We’re just about to grab dinner. Want to come along, or do you want to go in for a shower?”

Alexander considered his options for half a second. “I’m going with you,” he said, and pulled the gate shut.

“Yay!” Theo crowed, throwing her hands up into the air. When Gil grabbed onto her legs so she kept her balance, she bent down and nuzzled against his curls, laughing into the strands.

“Thanks for watching her today,” Alexander said. Their usual babysitter had had some kind of family emergency that morning, and he, Aaron, and Sarah all couldn’t call in sick at work at such short notice. It had been, oddly enough, Aaron’s idea to call Gil – he was in New York again for another visit – and Gil had agreed immediately. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Gil said predictably, lips tugging up into a grin. “She was good and we had fun, right?” He took Theo’s hands, shaking them lightly. “Right?”

“I’ve been good, Hammy,” Theo told him, wide and dark eyes so much like Aaron’s focusing on him. “You could’ve left me all alone in the house and I’d have been fine!”

“No, no,” Alexander shook his head immediately. “We won’t want you to get lonely, Theo.” Also, the New York state laws about leaving young children alone were ridiculously ambiguous, and lawyers never liked taking chances with such things.

“Hmph,” Theo said. She rested her cheek on top of Gil’s head, tugging on a curl absentmindedly. Gil didn’t even wince; Alexander supposed that he, with his own three children, would be used to the abuse.

Alexander led them down the street towards an Indian place that served curry hot enough for Aaron’s tastes and also things that were sweet and mild enough for Theo’s. Gil probably didn’t have good curry over in Paris either, so it would be a treat for him as well.

Halfway through, Theo lifted her head. “Down,” she commanded, and Gil immediately obeyed.

“You’re spoiling her,” Alexander noted.

Rolling his shoulders, Gil cracked his neck. “Nonsense,” he said once he stopped looking like a macabre, human-sized puppet with its joints out of whack. “I shouldn’t get out of shape, and she’s helping me work out.”

“Not that heavy!” Theo protested instantly. She grabbed Alexander’s hand, twining her fingers in his immediately. “Uncle Gil, I’m not that heavy to be considered a workout!”

“Well, I’m not a weightlifter either,” Gil said mildly, reaching over to ruffle her hair. She scrunched up her nose and tried to bat his hand away, so he laughed and retracted it. “But yes, Theo, you’re very light to me too.”

“Will you be coming to my birthday party tomorrow?” Theo asked, tipping her head up. When she smiled, there were several gaps in her teeth – she had started to lose even more of her baby teeth lately.

“Of course,” Gil told her, bopping her small nose gently. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Will I get more shoulder rides?” she asked, eyes crossing a little as she tried to follow his retracting finger.

“If you want,” Gil said.

The staff at the takeout place knew Alexander and Theo by sight now, but Gil was clearly a stranger. The man at the door – who was the owner of the shop, Alexander knew – spent a long time explaining to Gil every item of the menu. Mostly because Theo kept trying to help, and she kept getting the foreign words wrong, and so she had to be corrected and taught to pronounce them properly. Alexander watched them for a moment before he went to check his phone.

There was a text from Aaron. He read it, laughed, and pressed the first speed dial.

“I can’t believe I actually got out of work earlier than you by two whole hours,” he said, chuckling.

“Some people just need lessons in being succinct,” Aaron said, sounding harried and tired. “How’s Theo?”

“We’re buying dinner,” Alexander said. He slid his eyes over, and didn’t try to muffle his laugh at Theo’s current attempt to climb up Gil’s body despite already coming up to his hip. “She really, really likes her new babysitter.”

“Shame that he’s too rich for us to bribe to do this permanently,” Aaron told him, sounding amused. There were the sounds of cars rushing by the street in the background; he was probably grabbing a cab so he could reach home quickly enough to not make Theo wait.

“He’s now her ‘uncle Gil’,” Alexander informed him.

“That’s fitting,” Aaron said, humming under his breath. Then there was a soft curse, and the rapid tapping of running feet on concrete. Alexander waited patiently while Aaron quite possibly threw himself across the road to get into a cab.

“You know, if you end up getting into an accident, Theo won’t get to eat dinner, right?” he said. “I’m just… reminding you.”

“Won’t happen,” Aaron said. Then he covered the microphone, because all Alexander could hear was his muffled voice stating his address. “This is New York.”

“A city that has high rates of both car accidents and road rage,” Alexander pointed out. “Maybe we should get a car?” They could certainly afford one. Hell, they could afford _three_ , given the current salaries of all three working adults in the house. The only problem was, of course, finding a garage to put the things.

“No way,” Aaron said, like he had said every single time Alexander brought the subject up. Alexander rolled his eyes. “But as I was saying…”

“Yeah?”

“Theo calling Lafayette ‘uncle’ is pretty fitting,” Aaron said. Alexander could almost see him in the cab, stretching out his legs and leaning against the leather upholstery. “He’s your brother, isn’t he?”

“Kind of, yeah? So?”

“And you’re as good as being another father to her at this point.”

Alexander blinked. He peeled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen. Okay, it was still Aaron. He checked the number. Definitely Aaron. There was still the possibility that aliens had captured Aaron to tap into his amazing ability to not be smashed by cars when crossing roads dangerously, but that was a little far-fetched.

“Uh,” he said eloquently.

“C’mon, Alexander,” Aaron said, sounding amused now. “You should know that by now.”

“She doesn’t call me ‘dad’?” he pointed out faintly. Or Papa. Or any other terms used by daughters to refer to their fathers. 

“You live in the same house,” Aaron started, the mirth growing thicker in his tone. “You read to her bedtime stories. You have special nicknames for her. You help her with her homework during the few times she needs help. Her kindergarten has your name down along with mine as emergency contact. Her teachers know you by name and face.”

Opening his mouth, Alexander searched for retorts. He could find none.

“Hammy!” Theo called. She waved her hand energetically in the air. “Come help Uncle Gil take the boxes so I can hold your hands!”

Well, at least she was honest about her intentions. Alexander’s lips twitched for a moment before Aaron started laughing in his ear. He stared at the little girl who was certainly like a daughter to him, but whom he had never once thought to even want to see him as a father.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he hissed into the phone, and hung up before Aaron could say anything.

Walking over, he plucked one of the bags from Gil’s hands. Then he stuck out his hand. “Here you go, brat,” he drawled.

“Not a brat,” Theo pouted, but she took his hand anyway. “I’m a knight. Theo the vanquisher of bad dragons who try to eat up good people!”

Gil’s sudden confusion was nearly a physical weight. Alexander bit back a laugh. “Knights can sometimes be brats too,” Alexander pointed out.

As expected, Theo took a moment to digest this. Alexander leaned over her and whispered into Gil’s ear, “Dragons mean flashbacks.” His smile widened. “Aaron’s the one who taught her.”

“Ah,” Gil nodded. 

A tug on his pant leg. Alexander looked down. “How can a brat be a knight, or a knight be a brat?” she asked, blinking up to him. “A knight is selfless and a brat isn’t. It’s confusing, Hammy.”

“Brat’s not always meaning selfish,” Alexander explained, ruffling her hair to ease up the crease between her brows. “Sometimes it’s just a nickname. A term of affection.” He bopped her nose. “The meaning of a word can be changed according to how it’s used, remember?”

“Yes,” Theo nodded, still chewing on her lip. Alexander watched her face carefully as she worked through the small puzzle he had given her. “So it means that when you call me a ‘brat’, it just means you love me and you’re my Hammy, but it doesn’t mean that when someone else calls me a brat?”

“Exactly,” Alexander said, smiling helplessly. He ignored Gil’s raised eyebrow at ‘my Hammy’; he really didn’t need him to gang up with Aaron to make Alexander believe that he was really like Theo’s second father. They were getting along too well already.

Speak of the devil: Aaron was just exiting a green cab when they arrived back at the house. Alexander blinked when he saw Sarah coming out from the other side.

“We had the same idea and he literally picked me up from the curb,” Sarah explained before Alexander could even ask.

“Aunt Sarah!” Theo cried. She threw her arms out wide. “Hug!”

“Yes, hug,” Sarah said, dropping down to squat in front of Theo so she could engulf her small body in her arms. Then she tried to get up. Alexander grabbed her handbag before she could fall over trying to catch it while holding onto Theo. “You’re heavy.”

“Uncle Gil said I’m light,” Theo protested immediately, face buried in Sarah’s shoulder. Gil offered Sarah a sheepish smile, and wagged his fingers at her.

“Uh huh,” Sarah nodded, a smirk curving her lips as she looked at Alexander. “Uncle Gil, huh.”

“Guilty as charged,” Gil said.

Aaron came up behind them. Theo waved at him, grinning with gap-toothed mouth, and he ruffled her hair. “C’mon in already,” he said, and turned to Gil.

“If you’re going to thank me, save it,” Gil drawled. “Alexander already did it. And only one parent is needed to thank the babysitter, right?”

Even as Alexander shot him a dirty look, Aaron burst out laughing. He shook his head.

“Daddy?” Theo peeked out from behind Sarah’s shoulder. “What’s so funny?”

“Hammy is being an idiot about something,” Aaron told her very solemnly. 

“Is it an adult thing?” Theo asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you calling him an idiot because you love him and he’s your Hammy, too?”

Slowly, Alexander slapped his hand over his face and dragged it down. Gil retreated to the wall, leaning against it as he cackled loud enough to echo down the street. Somehow, Sarah still managed to hold onto the girl even as her entire body shook with laughter.

“In a way,” Aaron said, lips twitching. “A very different way than he is your Hammy.”

“Eh?” Theo blinked.

“Adult things again,” Aaron told her, reaching out to take her cheeks with both hands to squish them gently. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Theo said, scrunching up her nose. 

“This is bullying,” Alexander muttered. He grabbed Gil’s arm and started to drag him through the open gate towards the door. “C’mon. Let’s stop being a public disturbance, yeah?”

Gil was still laughing as he stumbled over after Alexander, shaking his head constantly. Out of the corner of his eyes, Alexander watched as Sarah transferred Theo over to Aaron, and the little girl immediately clung like a limpet to her father, little legs kicking against his back as he headed up the stairs.

“Here,” he said, holding out Sarah’s handbag to her.

“Thanks,” Sarah said, still grinning.

“Stop laughing at me,” Alexander grumbled.

Thankfully, they did stop teasing him as all of them headed for the kitchen to get ready for dinner. It wasn’t a task that required four adults and one child, but Theo wanted to help and she refused to let any one of them go. And, quite honestly, Theo’s wishes rather ruled this house.

They were seated at the table, Gil staring bug-eyed at Aaron as he calmly ate something red and smelling of chilies hot enough to burn off a tongue, when Theo looked up from her dhal and said, “Oh! Mrs Hernandez taught us something important today. And it helped me figure something out.”

“She did?” Aaron said, looking up. “What is it?”

“Jamie is getting a little brother or sister,” Theo said. “So Charlie asked Mrs Hernandez where babies came from.” 

Suddenly, Alexander was overcome with a sense of dread, and a nearly overwhelming urge to reach over the table and put his hand over her mouth. He gripped his fork very tightly.

“Uh huh,” Aaron nodded, encouraging.

“She said that babies come from when two people love each other very much and they have…” her eyebrows drew together. “Sex?”

Gil, in the middle of taking a sip of water because he was a deprived European unused to Indian food, sprayed it all over the table. Sarah nearly stabbed herself in the face with her fork. Aaron’s eyebrow twitched.

Alexander tried very, very hard to not crawl under the table and set up fort there until Theo was a teenager. His hand started to hurt from where he was gripping his fork tightly. If they weren’t using proper utensils, it would’ve broken by now.

Theo’s kindergarten was very liberal, Alexander reminded himself. Aaron had chosen it because it was liberal and therefore very accepting. These were just some things that came along with that liberalness.

“How did,” he croaked out. Theo turned wide, guileless eyes to him from where she was patting her ‘Uncle Gil’ on the arm as he mopped up his spill. “How did she explain sex?”

“When two people sleep on the same bed,” Theo recited, “sometimes they make noises that might seem scary.”

That was… actually a very good explanation for sex from a five-year-old’s point-of-view. Alexander blinked. Beside him, Aaron was slowly turning into stone.

“You said you figured something out?” Sarah prompted her. She seemed caught between the urge to run away in sheer terror and burst out laughing.

“It’s something you said, Aunt Sarah.” Theo turned towards her. Alexander had never seen Sarah’s face morph so quickly from ‘oh shit’ to an encouraging smile. “Uhhh… last year, when I was four and three quarters, there were these weird noises coming from Daddy’s room, and Hammy was there too? And you told me that it wasn’t a monster?”

Gil’s head made a very loud _thunk_ on the kitchen table. His shoulders started to shake. Alexander wanted to defenestrate him instantly. Aaron’s face was a rictus of emotions impossible to untangle.

“Yes, I did,” Sarah said, sounding strangled.

“So I realised that Daddy and Hammy were having sex then,” Theo said. Gil made a sound like a cat being skinned, and flapped his hand at Theo to assuage her immediate worry. “And I was wondering… Jamie was so happy about getting a little brother or sister, you know? And…” She bit her lip.

No, she wasn’t going to ask about that. She wasn’t going to…

“Am I getting a little brother or sister ever?”

Sarah slipped down from her chair. Alexander heard her head smack hard against one of the table’s legs, making the whole thing shake. Gil had officially given up on all pretence of composure and was now curled up on his chair with his face buried behind his hands.

Alexander hated both of them _so much_. They didn’t have to deal with Theo’s bright, eager eyes being fixed upon them. They didn’t actually have to answer this question.

He prodded Aaron on the arm with the back of his fork. When no response came, he did it again. He continued poking until Aaron _finally_ moved, clearing his throat.

“It’s ‘will’,” Aaron said. His voice sounded very rusty, and he cleared his throat again. “It’s ‘Will I be getting a little brother or sister’, Theo.”

Okay, Aaron was now officially on the list of people Alexander hated, too.

Theo heaved a sigh. She leaned forward. “ _Will I be_ getting a little brother or sister, Daddy? Hammy?”

Aaron took a deep breath and sank back into his chair. Sarah started crawling out from beneath the table, seemingly unable to stop herself from watching this. Alexander couldn’t blame her; if he wasn’t so directly involved, he’d want to watch this beautiful trainwreck, too.

“No,” he said, clearing his throat. “You’re not getting a little brother or sister, Theo. Not… not ever.”

“But why?” Theo cried, lips twisting into a pout. “I’ll be a good big sister! I swear I’ll be! Better than Jamie, too! I’ll share everything and I’ll teach them all of the fun games and I’ll show them how to be a good knight too!”

Somebody save him. Alexander didn’t believe in God, but he really wished he did right now, because no one else on this damned table were being helpful.

“Uhm,” Aaron said beside him. His fingers twitched; a painful-looking movement like he was trying to move after decades of immobility. “It’s not about how good or bad a sister you’d be, Theo. Nothing to do with that.”

“Huh?” Theo cocked her head to the side. “I don’t understand, Daddy. It’s just two people sleeping on the same bed, right?”

“Two people,” Alexander started. His voice, the traitor, died on him. He hissed out a breath to revive it, because he needed the thing, dammit. “Two people who are of opposite sex.”

Theo’s eyes went even wider, and she started frowning again. “I thought ‘sex’ is an… action? A thing people do?”

“Different meanings of a word,” Gil said, finally deciding to come to their rescue. He gave Theo a small smile that wobbled at the corners. “Sex can refer to the kind of body that a person has, or it can refer to the thing people do.”

When Theo continued to stare up at him, he dragged a hand through his hair. “You call Sarah ‘Aunt Sarah’, right?” Theo nodded. “And I’m your ‘Uncle Gil’, right? That’s because she’s a woman, and I’m a man. Two different sexes.”

“Ohhhhhh,” Theo said, both hands going to her mouth as comprehension dawned. Okay, maybe Gil didn’t need to die.

“The act that Mrs Hernandez mentioned,” Sarah said, pulling herself back to sitting properly on her chair. “That’s the second meaning of the word. It’s usually put into context of _having_ sex. Which is when people are in the same bed together and they make monster-like noises.” Okay, Sarah could live, too.

Gil opened his mouth. Alexander _knew_ he was going to try to explain gender to his and Aaron’s nearly six-year-old daughter, and so he caught his eye and crossed his arms over his chest. _No,_ he mouthed for good measure. _No, don’t even try right now_. Maybe tomorrow.

Frowning slightly, Theo turned back to Alexander. He pasted a smile on his face immediately, and saw Aaron do the same out of the corner of his eye.

“So…” Theo hesitated. “I can’t have a little brother or sister because Hammy and Daddy are both men?”

“Yes,” Alexander nodded. Then he stopped nodding because he was aware that he was looking a little maniacal doing that and Theo might start getting afraid that his neck would break.

“That’s not fair,” Theo said, crossing her arms. She pouted.

Despite himself, Alexander winced. Theo was very clever and smart for her age, and they tried to keep her away from prejudices as much as possible, but…

“People should be able to have babies whether they’re a man and a woman, or both men, or both women,” she continued, making Alexander’s train of thought screech to a halt. “It’s not fair that only one type of couples get to have babies.”

“Uh,” Alexander said very intelligently.

“That’s not a matter of fairness, Theo,” Aaron said, because _now_ he regained his speech faculties. “It’s biology. That’s simply how it works.”

“But it’s not fair,” Theo said, picking up her fork and stabbing a piece of potato sullenly. “Just because both my Dads are men doesn’t mean I don’t deserve a baby brother or sister.”

Before he could stop himself, Alexander smacked his hand over his face. Between his fingers, he saw Gil rapidly yank his glass of water away from his mouth before pressing it against his forehead, shoulders shaking again.

“You, uh,” Alexander said. He swallowed, and leaned forward, catching Theo’s eyes. “You… think of me as your dad?”

Theo stared at him. Then she giggled, because Alexander’s existential crisis was funny to a five-year-old. “Of course you are,” she told him, starting to kick her legs back and forth. “You’re my Hammy.”

“Hammy… isn’t exactly ‘Dad’,” he protested weakly. 

“I can call you ‘Dad’ if you like,” Theo offered, smile wide and guileless. “But I think ‘Hammy’ suits you better.”

“She has a point,” Aaron said, voice dry. Alexander decided then that he really deserved to be kicked out of the second-floor window.

“No, uh,” Alexander said, trying to hold onto whatever composure he had left. Given that he had less than Sarah, who now had her face buried behind both hands, it wasn’t much. He tried anyway.

“‘Hammy’ is fine.” When he smiled at her, it really was sincere. “You’re right, it suits me better anyway.”

“Good,” Theo nodded, and gave him another one of her wide, gap-toothed grins. Then she turned back to her dhal, sighing heavily. “But I still think it’s not fair I won’t ever be a big sister because of stupid _biology_.”

Opening his mouth, Alexander closed it again, and slipped back quietly to his seat. There were plenty of ways they could give her a sibling if she really wanted one, but that actually involved _having another child with Aaron_ , which…

He was still dealing with the idea of having one, okay? Give him some time to process this one.

Thankfully, the rest of dinner went peacefully. Sarah talked about her job – at the Aerospace Museum, as one of the curators – one that she still wasn’t very used to despite the six months she’d had it. Gil distracted Theo with stories of French fairytales, and promised to send her books in French because she was gaining further mastery of the language. Alexander deliberately didn’t look at Aaron, and knew Aaron was doing exactly the same thing.

When they were finished with eating, Gil and Sarah looked at each other, and somehow mutually agreed to herd Theo to the living room without speaking a word even though they had just met each other today.

And Alexander was left alone with Aaron. The other father of… the kid they were sharing. He picked up the utensils while Aaron took the takeout boxes to put them into the trash.

“So, uh,” Alexander said, because he knew he had to initiate the conversation since Aaron still wouldn’t, despite speaking more nowadays. “I’m not… trying to take her mother’s place. Okay?”

He didn’t know where that thought came from. Okay, so he knew, because he was just visiting Theodosia today and talking to her about her _husband_ and her _daughter_ and… he raised a hand to run it through his hair, realised it was covered in soap suds, and dropped it back down again.

“I know,” Aaron said. 

His voice was so devoid of emotion that Alexander just had to look at him. He had barely turned around when Aaron moved, bracketing him with his body and pinning him against the counter.

“Uh,” Alexander said. “Theo?”

“She’s busy,” Aaron said, and kissed him.

‘Kissed’ wasn’t really the right word. Aaron claimed his mouth, licking over his palate and teeth and tongue like he was trying to devour Alexander through those alone. Alexander stopped caring about the soap and gripped onto Aaron’s arms, getting his shirt wet as he pushed back against him, kissing him even harder.

When they pulled apart, they were both panting. Alexander sagged against the counter, head dropping forward to press his cheek against Aaron’s shoulder.

“Dads, huh?” he mumbled.

“Mm,” Aaron nodded. His hand splayed over Alexander’s back.

Slowly, Alexander lifted his head. He gave (his lover? boyfriend? partner? ‘ugh’?) _Aaron_ a wide smile, knowing he looked like a fool.

“We have a kid, and you haven’t even made an honest man out of me yet,” he said.

It was a joke. It was a damned joke. But Aaron’s eyes were darkening and he was opening his mouth and— Alexander slapped a hand over it before he knew what he was doing.

“No,” he said. “Not no to the question, but no to right now.” He blinked, and shook his head. “Like, Christ, this is such shitty timing, okay? Just…” He flapped his other hand. “I have one kid? Let me get used to having one kid before… everything else?”

His hand slipped back down. Aaron’s chin was covered in soap, but he only wiped his forearm over it and didn’t speak. Alexander fidgeted in the silence.

“I’ve never…” he hesitated, and then turned on the tap and ran his hands under the water until all of the soap was gone.

Back still turned to Aaron, he took a deep breath. “The house and two point five kids and dog and picket fence thing has never been for me, okay?” he blurted out. “Okay, no, it used to be something for me and then I fucked things up with… with Eliza, and then I gave it up and now it’s—”

Aaron’s arms wrapped around him from behind, his chest a warm, solid weight. Alexander’s words died in his throat, and he closed his eyes. 

“We have time,” Aaron said softly. “You have time.”

Reaching down, Alexander found one of Aaron’s hands and gripped it tight. “Yeah,” he said, choking out the word because his throat was closing for some reason. “Yeah. We do, don’t we.”

Instead of words, Aaron kissed the back of his neck. Alexander sagged a little further, but that was okay. Aaron could hold him up. Aaron was good at holding him up.

“Hey,” he said, turning around. “We have a daughter.”

“Well,” Aaron said, lips twitching. “I’ve had a daughter since she was born, but,” his forehead touched Alexander’s, effectively silencing his protests before they could even form. “We do, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Alexander said. His shoulders shook. “And she’s smart enough to put pieces together to realise that we’re having sex when we tried so hard to keep it from her,” they even bought a new bed and installed soundproofing to the bedroom, for God’s sake, “and yet still a kid enough to think biology is unfair.”

Another quiet laugh. “She’s amazing, you know that?”

“She is,” Aaron whispered, leaning forward until their foreheads touched and his breath ghosted over Alexander’s lips. “And she’s yours too, now. No take backs.”

Alexander tipped his head back, and their mouths met again. His hand reached up, cupping the back of Aaron’s neck, holding onto him as they kissed again. Slower this time. Sweeter, too. Exploring again because Alexander never stopped being surprised when it came to this man. Like the hint of dishwashing soap on his lips.

“Daddy! Hammy!” Theo’s voice from the living room. “You’re slow!”

They leaned back from each other in sync. Aaron’s eyes were so warm, and the sides were crinkled with his smile. Alexander brushed a finger over those small lines. “Daughter’s calling,” he said.

“Let’s go,” Aaron said. He didn’t move.

“ _C’mon_!” Theo yelled again. “I wanna watch _Mulan_ again and it’s almost bedtime and I won’t be able to get to her awesome scene before then!”

Their daughter, who was fine with ordering her parents to hurry up, but who obeyed bedtime without question. Alexander laughed helplessly.

“Coming,” he shouted back. He wriggled out from Aaron’s grasp, ignoring the way the other man was trying to stifle his laughter.

“You have a dirty mind,” he muttered under his breath.

“And whose fault is that?” Aaron said, and he tangled their fingers together as he allowed Alexander to drag him to the living room.

Alexander didn’t deign to respond. Aaron’s vices were entirely not his fault, after all.

Only when they were halfway through _Mulan_ did Alexander realise that they had ended up not washing the utensils they’d used for dinner. Ah, well.

They had time to do it later. No one was going anywhere.


	32. Epilogue: it’s quiet uptown (the storm is over) [Part Two]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Depiction of panic attacks, and fully consensual sex with BDSM involved that’s constantly negotiated. And also fluff.

_June 16, 2017, Friday_  
  
“You know, every single time I come here, I keep being reminded of this TV show.”

Thomas looked up from where he was poring over a case file – one of the five littering all over his table. Elia Ring stood there, leaning against the doorframe with her long relaxed hair in a thick braid over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

“If you’re going to make a _Daredevil_ joke, approximately fifteen people have already made it,” Thomas said tartly, glaring at her for good measure. “I’m not blind, and my name isn’t something ridiculous like Foggy, and there isn’t some contrived plot in the future to make me sleep with Catherine.”

“But you’re being so sweet,” Elia said, drawling out the last word. She pointed at one of the large posters pasted on the wall, the one that said, _If you have a problem with my paralegal’s appearance, get out immediately because she’s a better person than you can ever be_. “See that thing over there? If this was a TV drama, the camera would’ve lingered on that for the first episode. Foreshadowing, you know?”

“Please stop talking about potential romantic subplots between my boss and me,” Catherine said, coming out from the bathroom. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor of the office as she walked over to her wife, kissing her on the cheek. “It’s starting to make me wonder if this is your way of telling me you want a divorce.”

“Never,” Kalessin piped up from her small table shoved into the corner of the hole-in-the-wall office. “I won’t ever let you guys do that. The two of you are my OTP, okay? You can’t break up ever.”

“Can’t you ship other people?” Catherine threw back at her, exasperated.

“There are no other people,” Kalessin pouted. “I need to get my cravings somewhere.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Thomas barked at Catherine, knowing just what she was going to suggest. The absolutely _last_ thing he needed was for Kalessin to start getting curious about his relationship with James; right now, she had accepted the year-old explanation that they were best friends, and that wasn’t exactly deterring her from imagining the two of them to be lovers. He didn’t want to imagine the places her head would go to if she knew that they were actually together.

Catherine’s teeth clicked back shut, and Thomas nodded to himself before he turned his attention back to his case file. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Catherine shake her head at Kalessin, silencing her question before it could begin.

For most of the time since he had started up this office, it had been quiet, almost eerily so. Catherine liked to work in silence, especially after the constant din of her last workplace, and Thomas had gotten used to working by himself in his own office. They would only exchange snatches of conversations here and there, mostly about the cases that Thomas had chosen to take, and then Elia’s visit to pick up her wife at the end of the day would be the noisiest few minutes in the entire office before it went dark.

Then Thomas made the rather unwise decision to offer a paid internship to Kalessin after she graduated high school, because she might as well do something useful while waiting to enter NYU’s psychiatry programme. Kalessin didn’t understand what it meant to work quietly. Even when she wasn’t talking, there would always be some kind of noise emanating from her direction.

Case in point: she was crunching on potato chips, obnoxiously loud, as she typed up emails for Thomas to send. 

“Stop that,” he told her. He tossed his pen in her direction, the cheap ballpoint clacking loud against the wood of her table. “I’m not going to deal with your mother coming in to complain to me _again_ that you refuse to eat dinner with your family because you stuffed yourself with junk food while you’re here.”

“I’m a growing teenager,” Kalessin said around a mouthful of chips. “And the office doesn’t have a ‘no eating and drinking’ rule anyway.”

Because Thomas now had so many cases on his hands that actually sitting down at a restaurant for a weekday lunch seemed more and more like a pipe dream nowadays. He gave her a look.

“Not the point,” he told her, wondering just how he had become semi-guardian to a teenager when he never had had a single biological child in his entire life and probably would never have one. “Don’t make me start avoiding your mother.”

“Mom likes you,” Kalessin said. She shoved another fistful of chips into her mouth, and grinned at him with her mouth full.

Thomas opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Catherine was walking over to Kalessin and poking her hard on her forehead with two fingers. “Stop that,” she said, and took the bag out of her hands, tossing it over to her own desk. Then she turned to look at Thomas over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “See, this is how you discipline a kid.”

“Duly noted and then forgotten,” Thomas said, dry. He made flapping motions with his hands. “Now get out of here, all three of you. Enjoy your Friday night.”

“We should be saying that to _you_ ,” Elia said. She walked over to Thomas’s desk, hands dropping down onto the wood as she leaned in, leering “What’s a handsome man in the prime of his life spending his weekend working, huh?” 

Picking up another pen, Thomas pressed the tip of it against her chest, carefully aiming above the breasts, before he pushed her backwards. “I thought you were gay,” he said, voice a little weak. Elia had _never_ once said anything like that to him before.

“Oh, I am,” she said, still leering. “But it doesn’t mean that I don’t have eyes. You’re exceedingly pretty. For a man.”

The office was well-lit, filled with the soft, unobtrusive scent of dried flowers from the potpourri that Catherine liked to buy. But the air was suddenly too thin and too thick at the same time, nearly stifling. 

_Pretty_ , she said. Her voice blended in with someone else’s. Men’s voices. Thomas took a deep breath and shoved the memories away. “Thanks,” he managed to croak out from a suddenly dry throat.

His hands were shaking. The pen clattered as he dropped it, and he flinched at the sound.

“Shit,” Elia said. She backed away immediately, giving him room. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay,” he said, dragging the words out even as his head hit the edge of his desk. _Breathe_ , dammit. It was just a word. It was a goddamned joke. It had been fifteen months. He slapped his hand over his mouth, curling his fingers slightly so he didn’t end up suffocating himself. He held himself in that position until he was sure that he wasn’t going to start gagging.

A glass of water came into his field of vision. Thomas lifted his head, brushing his curls out of his eyes. Catherine was sitting in front of him, hands resting on top of the desk with her fingers still wet.

“Thought you said that you’re okay now,” she said softly.

Thomas laughed, the sound raspy and hoarse but sincere still. “Though I was too,” he said, giving her a crooked grin even as he leaned against his chair fully. It was one of his few indulgences in the office – upholstered with leather and large enough to cradle his entire body – and he allowed himself to be swallowed up by the cushions even as he closed his eyes.

“Fuck this, seriously,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shook his head. “Sorry if I scared Elia.”

“Elia really doesn’t give a fuck about being scared,” Elia said, her voice sounding a little faraway. “Elia also wishes that you would stop fucking apologising for having panic attacks, because seriously, just fucking stop.”

“What she said,” Catherine drawled, sounding amused.

“Yeah, well, I’ll stop apologising when my triggers start making some fucking sense, okay?” Thomas growled at them. Then he sighed, dropping his head backwards to stare up at the ceiling. “Unfortunately, they still haven’t.”

“They’re not supposed to make sense,” Catherine started, but she was interrupted.

“I kind of have a theory?” Kalessin said. When Thomas looked at her, she looked sheepish, tugging at the ends of her hair nervously from where she was still curled up in her chair. “It’s mostly from stuff I’ve read on the Internet, so…”

Probably the same stuff he’d read. The things he’d had to subsist on because going to a therapist just wasn’t an option. Not because of his reputation – nowadays the press just wasn’t interested in him anymore – but because he knew that none of them would understand.

Still, he flapped his hand at her. “Go ahead?”

“You’re really uncomfortable with sexual attraction,” Kalessin said, fiddling with a pen. “Any kind of sexual attraction. Because… it’s linked towards…” she made a vague gesture with her hands. Thomas’s mind helpfully filled in the blank: _rape_. “Maybe?”

“Can’t be,” Thomas protested. He definitely felt sexual attraction, alright.

“She might have a point,” Catherine said. Her head was cocked to her side, eyes narrowed at him. “You know, when we’re out together,” during those times when they were doing investigations or when they actually wanted to talk without having work hanging over their heads, “do you notice just how many people check you out?”

“Of course,” Thomas said. He was used to that; he knew he was attractive. It was just one of the facts about himself he had tucked away at the back of his mind because it wasn’t relevant most of the time.

“No, I don’t think you do,” Catherine said. She pushed her chair back from the desk, the wheels screeching softly against the hardwood floor, before she crossed her arms. “Do you notice them looking at you like this?”

She started from his face, and moved downwards. Slowly, inch by inch, gaze scanning over his body, lingering over his crotch, like…

Like she was undressing him with her eyes.

The slam his chair made against the wall echoed throughout the small office. His hands hurt from where they were gripping the arms too tightly. Thomas took a deep, shuddering breath and flexed his fingers. 

“C’mon, you’re exaggerating,” he said, fighting to keep his voice light. “People don’t do that to me.” Only women got that kind of treatment. He had been trying to get up his courage to confront the men who made catcalls for _months_ because of that.

“They… kind of do,” Kalessin said. She still wasn’t looking at him, going back to fiddling with her pen. “Uh… I haven’t told you this, but… uh… do you remember coming to my place on New Year’s?”

To celebrate Elric’s life. Thomas nodded, “Yeah.”

“Couple of days after that…” Kalessin took a breath. Elia dropped a hand on her shoulder, and squeezed. “Bunch of my aunts,” who weren’t actually related to her, “started hounding my parents and me about you. Asking if you were still single. I think they spent something like… two hours? Talking about how attractive you are.”

Thomas stared at her. “Your middle-aged aunts,” he stated flatly.

Kalessin nodded. “They weren’t interested for themselves, but their daughters.” She paused, flashing Thomas a smile from beneath her bangs. “Don’t worry; we managed to fend them off. But… uh… it does happen.”

“Most of the time you don’t notice it when you’re with me because you’re snarling at the people who are staring at me,” Catherine smirked at him. “I’ve grown used to ignoring those, so I definitely notice the ones staring at _you_.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. His voice sounded dull in his ears. He grabbed the glass of water again, pouring some into his hand and slapping it over his face and neck. The chill seeped into his skin, down to his bones, but he still felt far too warm anyway. “Okay. Uh. That’s…”

Most people would find it flattering, he thought slightly hysterically. Hell, _he_ had thought it to be flattering. But now… Now his skin was crawling. There wasn’t anyone who was staring at him right now, and he was with people he trusted, two of whom were married to each other and the other far too young to even think about him in such a way and…

“Give me a minute,” he said, jumping up from his chair. He avoided their eyes as he headed to the bathroom, barely stopping himself from slamming the door behind him.

The mirror was small, showing only his face. He looked better than he had a few months ago – the gauntness of his cheeks had filled out again because he didn’t throw up so much that any food he ate ended up being wasted anymore. Even his clothes – still the same as those he had owned last year – didn’t hang off his frame so much anymore.

Closing his eyes, he fell forward. The glass was cool against his forehead. Thomas breathed out, fogging it even as he loosened his tie and undid the first few buttons of his shirt. The necklace peeked out, and he tangled his fingers in leather and silver, feeling the warm solidity of both as he tried to stop himself from shaking.

He was supposed to be better. He _was_ better. He had been confident enough that he was better that he had planned something for tonight, something that had been a long time coming, but now…

Goddammit. Whenever he thought he had managed to run far enough from the ocean to never feel its touch again, the tide would come in again and there would be salt on his tongue and water lapping against his feet. 

Pulling back, he hit his head against the glass just once. He was so damned tired of fighting.

Seconds ticked past. Catherine and the others were probably still waiting outside. He had to go out so they knew he was fine.

Straightening his spine, he buttoned his shirt again. His fingers didn’t tremble as he did up the tie, but he rubbed the tips of them against the heavy silk anyway. James’s tie, though he wore it often enough nowadays that it might as well belong to him.

There was a knock on the door. “Did you die in there?” Catherine asked. “Don’t make me pick up after your corpse.”

“If I’m dead then you’ll have to pick up after my corpse _and_ all of the work I’d have left undone,” he said, opening the door and meeting her eyes. He hoped he looked presentable enough. “I don’t think you’d want to do that.”

“Definitely not,” Catherine said. She took a step back, brows furrowing as she looked at him. “Look, uh…”

“You and Elia have to go,” Thomas finished for her, lips quirking into a small smile. “Go on. I’ll be fine.” He would make himself fine somehow. “Can you drop Kalessin back home on the way?”

“We always do,” Catherine said as they headed back to the main office area together. “But…” she hesitated, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes.

He sighed heavily. “I’ll be _fine_ ,” he said. Maybe if he said it enough times, maybe if he tried his best to be sincere about the words for long enough, they would come true. “It’s date night for you two, so go ahead.”

“If there’s anything,” Catherine started.

“Stop fussing,” Thomas said. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend before you have to come back and suffer through my presence again.” When she still didn’t budge, Thomas sighed, picking up his phone from the desk and shaking it at her. “James is on speed dial.”

She leaned in, hands on the table. “You know that’s not very reassuring, right?” she asked, eyes dark and serious.

Thomas had never told her about what had happened between him and James. But somehow, she had put enough of the pieces together to make a scarily accurate guess. There were definitely perks to having her as his incredibly perceptive paralegal, but there were disadvantages, too.

At least she never confronted him about it, never even tried. Nowadays, he would take whatever small mercies he could get.

“But it’s still true,” he said. “And he really does take care of me.” In more ways than one, hopefully, if the night went as he’d planned it. “

“Alright,” Catherine said. She turned away from him and headed for the door. Thomas collapsed back onto his chair, and picked up his case file again. He rubbed his knuckles over the bridge of his nose

“Hey, Thomas?” he looked up. Elia was standing at the door, one hand on the frame and the other on Kalessin’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” he stressed, waving it away. “Now go ahead.” He stretched his lips into a smile that hopefully looked sincere as he watched them leave, locking the office door behind them.

Then he was alone. He rubbed his hands over his face and went back to reading over his case file. The client for this particular case was being sued for libel because she went on the Internet to expose the terrible deeds done unto her by her boyfriend. Kalessin had found it on the Internet, and practically begged him to take it because the woman couldn’t afford legal fees.

On paper, it looked pretty clear-cut: she had records of abusive text messages, some video tapes and a few more audio recordings, and all of the evidence was damning for the prosecution. The only potential problem was that the woman had received a lot of money from her boyfriend throughout their relationship.

She reminded him of Sally. She reminded him of Sally’s mother, too, for the few times he’d met Betty Hemings. He had been taking a lot of cases like these lately. Even though he knew that it wouldn’t absolve him from what he had done, he simply couldn’t help himself.

It was seven past seven when he finally finished making his notes for that case. He moved it to the side while diving into another one, a college student accused of manslaughter because he was suspected of being the drug pusher who supplied the things that led his roommate to his death. There was nothing he could actually do for that case until he met Munroe tomorrow afternoon. He scribbled a note to remind himself to find Mulligan and hound him for any ‘unofficial’ information, too, since nowadays Munroe wasn’t nearly as helpful as he had used to be.

The office was very silent around him. His phone buzzed a couple of times – texts from Catherine and Elia, nagging for him to go home. He fed them lies that he knew that they didn’t believe. Kalessin threatened to sic her mother on him.

Thomas couldn’t really blame them. He knew that his hours were ridiculous; they definitely were much more than when he had been working at a job which actually paid him. Still, it was difficult for him to peel himself away from the office, most nights.

At least the sun was still shining when he headed out towards the subway. Though that didn’t say much since it was early summer, he _had_ been going home in the dark for the past week. He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t avoiding home, wasn’t avoiding James, but the dark, haunted look that was starting to return to James’s eyes told him that he hadn’t been successful.

Hopefully his plans for tonight would help to clear up those eyes again. If Thomas still had the courage to go through with them.

His bicycle was parked outside Irvington station. It was a cheap thing, bought second-hand from a run-down shop in Bushwick and carted through the train while he avoided dirty stares. Thomas dumped his messenger bag – something else that used to be James’s and was now his – along with his suit jacket into the basket before he climbed on and headed up to the house. 

It was faster to bike than to wait for the bus. Convenient, too, now that Thomas simply didn’t have the time to join James for his Sunday gym visits, and he didn’t have a house with an indoor gym and a pool on the grounds anymore.

The house was still dark when he arrived at the gate, panting just a little. He punched in the code number – they had changed the security system last June – before heading inside. The bike went to the empty garage, carefully tucked to the side so it wouldn’t be run over by James’s car, before he headed up to the house to take a shower. He took off his contacts and switched to glasses after he came out of the bathroom.

 _Tonight, tonight_. The mantra ran through Thomas’s head even as he retrieved the groceries that he had bought this morning after James left for his court session today. His hands shook a little as he went through the motions, following the recipe. He hadn’t cooked since Martha’s death, but this was a skill like riding a bicycle, wasn’t it? It was just finding his balance again. Besides, he had always thought of cooking as being like chemistry, and he was good with science even though it had been more than a decade since he had had any hands-on experience with experiments, it couldn’t be that difficult.

By the time the sensor at the door beeped, heralding James’s return, the kitchen was covered in dark smoke and Thomas had barely put down the phone for takeout. The fire alarm thankfully wasn’t blaring any longer, and he pushed open the windows to let all of the smoke out before heading out to the living room.

James was standing next to the coffee table, blinking at the sight of Thomas exiting the kitchen while smoke billowed out dramatically after him.

“Uh,” he said. He didn’t start to cough or choke, which meant that Thomas turning the ventilators on the highest setting had been a good idea.

“I tried to make dinner,” Thomas said. He ran a hand through his frazzled curls. “It… didn’t work out very well?”

“You tried to cook,” James said. He tossed his briefcase over to the couch, taking a couple of steps forward until he was right in front of Thomas. “ _You_ , who used to have servants for such things, tried to cook.”

His lips were twitching. Thomas scowled. “It should’ve gone fine,” he complained. “I followed the instructions perfectly.”

Except the part where he was supposed to pour wine slowly into the pan, did it too fast, and started a fire instead. He decided to not tell James that.

Laughing now, James took his face with both hands. Slowly, Thomas took off his glasses and tucked them into his pocket. He leaned into him, closing his eyes. Their lips met in a slow, soft kiss, James’s lips so gentle over his, tongue firmly tucked within his own mouth until Thomas darted out his own to lick over his bottom lip. James sighed, and he pressed his body against Thomas’s, hands still on his cheeks as the kiss deepened. Thomas’s hands went to his arms, clutching tight onto his suit jacket as he moaned deep in his throat. He shuddered as James slid his hands down, one splaying over Thomas’s back while his other arm wrapped around his waist.

Bracketed, surrounded… God, Thomas wanted him so much. Even when they parted to pant for breath, his head was still dizzied by the waves upon waves of desire that crashed upon him. 

He buried his face into James’s shoulder. James’s scent – cologne-musk, sweat-salt, sickness-sourness mixed together with the flatness of air-conditioning – wrapped around him, sinking into his lungs. He shuddered, hard, his nails scrambling at James’s shoulders. James’s skin was cool, but the heat of their touches seeped right through Thomas’s through the many layers of his clothes, heading south until Thomas could feel his own cock twitching inside his underwear.

“Why did you suddenly decide to make dinner?” James murmured against his hair. “Have I forgotten an important date?”

“You didn’t,” Thomas said. He tried to shake his head and only ended up nuzzling into James’s neck instead. “Wanted today to _become_ a special day, actually.”

“Mm?” James’s confusion was buzzing around them.

Pulling back, Thomas gave him a smile that he hoped was confident but probably looked nervous instead. “Yeah,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair. “I… Uh…” He took a deep breath, and looked James in the eye. “Do you want to fuck me? Tonight?”

James stilled so entirely that Thomas could practically see his breath stopping in his throat. He tried to not shift from foot to foot as James’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“I want,” James said, and stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I want to take you to bed, Thomas. I want to… want to make love to you. I want to…” His voice failed him, and his head fell onto Thomas’s shoulder as tremors wreaked through him. “Are you…”  
_  
Pretty_. Elia’s voice, Weeks’s voice, those men at the bar. A nightmare nudging at the edge of his mind, threatening to drag him down into the abyss. James’s voice.

But James’s body was trembling but his hands weren’t moving beyond Thomas’s waist. He wasn’t crushing Thomas. Their hips were pressed together and James’s cock was still soft despite their kiss, despite the fourteen months James had spent wanting and waiting while Thomas had told him _no_ over and over again.

“Yeah,” he said, voice trembling but absolutely certain. He turned his head and kissed James’s temple. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

The doorbell rang. “That’s our takeout,” Thomas said.

“We should eat,” James said. He made to pull back from Thomas, but Thomas caught his arms and dragged him back.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

James shook his head. “Not really,” he said. The doorbell rang again, this time more insistently; both of them ignored it. “I ate something at five when it became really clear that the session was going to drag on.”

“Okay,” Thomas nodded. “How ‘bout we eat dinner later,” because Kalessin wasn’t the only one who ate junk food at the office, “and you go shower now and we…” His lips twitched up into sheepish smile. He tried to not waggle his eyebrows because he knew it would ruin the mood. 

“Jesus,” James breathed. His forehead met Thomas’s as he leaned in. “Do you think I’d say no to that?”

Thomas laughed despite himself. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, arms wrapped around James’s shoulders. “But I _do_ know that I should go get the food before the guy breaks down the door.”

They pulled apart reluctantly: James’s hands lingering on his waist, his own skittering over heavy arms. James looked at him just once more before he nodded, grabbed his briefcase and headed for his room. Thomas watched him go, trying to not let his eyes stay too long on the shift of muscles beneath the layers.

Once he was sure that there wasn’t a tent in his sweatpants, he went to get the food, tipping the delivery guy generously for his eagerness and patience. He stowed the boxes into the microwave and ran upstairs, turning the water on as he pulled off his clothes because the last thing he needed when they were doing what they would be doing was for James to start coughing because of the stench of smoke still stuck to his skin.

Under the water, he tried to not let his hands drift too much south. But he couldn’t help himself: his fingers brushed over the juncture of hip and thigh, then further backwards until he was tracing the rim of his hole. His head smacked hard against the bathroom tile and he shoved the knuckles of his other hand into his mouth, ignoring the pain. He pushed in a single fingertip inside, keeping it shallow. 

No shadows. Nothing except a throbbing need underneath his skin. His own finger wasn’t enough – too thin – even as he pushed it fully inside. He crooked the finger and let out a muffled yell at the pleasure that shot up his spine. No shadows. The only water was the one pouring down on his head, slowly going cold.

Okay. He pulled the finger out. Okay, they could do this. His hands trembled as he soaped himself up, carefully avoiding his cock. Okay, he wanted to do this so badly that he was almost tempted to jerk himself off right now so he wouldn’t come the moment James put a hand on his bare skin.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he dried his hair as quickly as he could before pulling a brush through it without looking into the mirror. He put on James’s sweater, the light blue cashmere, and a pair of boxer-briefs. He looked at his sweats again before shrugging and tugging them on, too, because walking around the house while looking like he was freshly fucked was only a good idea if he had actually _been_ freshly fucked.

He needed to stop thinking those things. Now _he_ was the one rapidly spiralling out of control. He took off his glasses again, looking at them. His vision wasn’t very good with further distances with them off, but hopefully he didn’t need to look very far ahead tonight.

Taking a deep breath, Thomas straightened. He snuck a glance to the violin case standing beside the bed – something planned for tomorrow – before he headed down the stairs. The living room was empty, so he turned down the hallway towards James’s bedroom. He had been there a couple of times, but they had been keeping to their own spaces for most of the year, with the living room and kitchen designated as the common area. 

James’s door was half-closed. Thomas pushed it open entirely and blinked at the sight of James sitting there, back against the headboard and staring at his hands. When those dark eyes turned to him, he could see the precise moment when James realised just _what_ Thomas was wearing. He swallowed hard, nodded, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Then he hooked his fingers beneath the hem of his loose sweatpants, shoving them down. He met James’s eyes while dressed in almost exactly the same clothes as he had worn more than a year ago when James had been raping him on a regular basis. 

“Hey,” he said, stepping out of the sweats and approaching the bed. James looked as if he was carved out of stone. Thomas crawled up onto the bed and towards him, inch by inch while James’s gaze stayed on him, the dark fire in it unwavering. Thomas’s fingers brushed over a cheek, and then he took another breath. He swung a leg up and pushed himself forward at the same time, straddling James’s lap.

“C’mere,” he breathed. When James raised his hand, Thomas closed his fingers around it and brought it down. Slowly, very carefully, knuckles brushing over soft cashmere until they reached the hem of the sweater. Biting his lip, Thomas moved James’s hand down even lower. Until James could feel just how hard he was beneath his boxer-briefs. “Look.”

“ _Thomas_ ,” James gritted out. His fingers curled around the bulge. Thomas’s breath hitched, and he cried out, loud and sharp, as James squeezed him hard. He fell forward, thighs trembling, as James started to rub him hard through the underwear, thumb finding the head of his cock with unerring accuracy until Thomas could feel himself getting the cloth wet.

“Your hand, so good,” he gasped. “Oh God, James!” His eyes squeezed shut, hips thrusting forward, fucking against James’s palm as he stroked harder, faster. He panted into James’s shoulder, inhaling his scent, now mixed with his citrus shampoo, and he cried out helplessly again because it was so good, it was so good that he was going to—

“Stop,” he forced out. James’s hand immediately drew away, and the sudden absence of warmth had Thomas choking out another gasp. His arm wrapped around James’s shoulders, holding onto him as he shook and shook for the next few seconds.

“We can stop,” James murmured into his ear. “We don’t have to do this tonight. We can stop.”

“No,” Thomas said. He took a shuddering breath, lifting his head to meet James’s eyes. He took that beloved face with both hands, drawing him close until their foreheads touched again. “I didn’t tell you to stop because I was scared, James.” A laugh burbled in his throat; he let it escape. “I said stop because if you keep doing that, I’m gonna come, and I’d rather I come only when you’re inside me.”

Groaning deep and low, James buried his hands in Thomas’s wet, tangled curls. “Are you sure?” he asked, looking deep into his eyes. “You’ve never done this before. Are you _absolutely_ sure you want that tonight?”

Closing his eyes, Thomas nodded.

“Look at me, Thomas. Please,” James said, desperation ringing sharp in his voice. Thomas was looking into those dark eyes before he knew it, his own widening. “I need to know if you’re not doing this because… because of anything other than you wanting it.”

“I want this,” Thomas told him. He licked his lips. “I’ve wanted this for weeks, James. Maybe months.”

Months in which his nightmares slowly morphed into wet dreams that he hadn’t had since he had been a teenager. Months where his eyes kept getting stuck to James’s shoulders and back and arms and thighs and calves and every single inch of him, not undressing but wondering, wondering… He dragged in a ragged breath.

“Can we stay like this?” he said, motioning to their current position. “Don’t… don’t push me down until I say that it’s okay?”

“Of course,” James said, nodding fervently. “Whatever you want. Whatever _you_ want.”

“Right now…” Thomas swallowed. “Right now I want to see you properly. I want to undress you. May I? Will you let me?”

God, he was stuttering. They were both stuttering.

James’s fingers were trembling against his hair. “Yes. Please, yes,” he breathed. “But let me kiss you first? May I kiss you?”

“Please,” Thomas whispered.

When James leaned forward, Thomas met him halfway. Too fast, their teeth clacking together, but they turned their heads easily because they were used to this by now. They kissed messily, frantically, tongues and teeth and lips moving without thought, just need and desire and Thomas was clawing at James’s shoulders again, a sob wrenching out of his mouth even as James’s arm returned to his waist, holding him close. 

Pulling apart, Thomas dragged in sharp gasps of air even as his hands scrambled for the hem of James’s t-shirt. It was plain black, a little loose on him because James had lost weight too, but Thomas didn’t bother to think about that as he pulled it off, James helping by lifting his arms. The shirt was tossed to the side, and Thomas was scrambling on James’s waist, pulling off his sweatpants and boxers with trembling fingers even as he moved sideways so he could pull them off again.

He stood beside the bed and stared. James had never undressed in front of him before tonight, and Thomas’s eyes couldn’t get enough of the wealth of dark, smooth skin being revealed, inch by inch. He leaned forward, hand splaying upon James’s chest, feeling his thudding heart and hard muscles and cool skin beneath his fingertips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. His hand slipped down, curving over James’s softer stomach, so much unlike his own abs. “God, James. Look at you. You’re so gorgeous.”

James’s head thudded hard against the headboard as he threw it back, eyes closed. His body arched towards Thomas’s touch. Thomas bit his lip and moved even further down, tentatively ghosting his fingers over James’s erection, rising amidst a heavy thatch of wiry curls.

” _Thomas_ ,” James gasped. His hips lifted, and Thomas took that as invitation to wrap his hand around James’s cock. Just holding, feeling the silk-smoothness of dark skin. Trailed his fingertips over the prominent vein on the underside and then upwards. There was a bead of moisture starting to gather on the tip; Thomas dipped his thumb against it, smearing the wetness all over the head, and then he pushed very gently into the slit.

Moaning, James shuddered hard. Thomas watched him before he leaned forward, barely realising what he was doing until his lips were wrapped around James’s cock, and he was sliding down.

Weight on his tongue. The scent and taste were almost exactly the same: a little bitterer, a little cleaner. He could still feel the wool of the cashmere sweater on his chest, the constriction of his underwear around his cock. But there was no hand in his hair, so he took James further in until he could feel the head nudging against the back of his throat. His knees hit the floor.

“Jesus Christ, _Thomas,_ ” James groaned. His hands were tangled in the sheets. Thomas pulled back up. The position was awkward but he couldn’t be bothered to climb up on the bed again, instead dragging himself closer until his chest hit the side of the mattress. Then he darted his tongue out and flicked it, very lightly, over the head.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing. Except that he wanted more of James’s noises. Wanted more of the sound of his name being wrenched and wrecked in that voice that was always so composed. He wrapped his lips around the head again, and sucked, just once.

A hard jerk. James’s cock slipped more into his mouth before moving back again when James regained control of himself. Thomas watched him out of the corner of his eye. Tilting his head, he slipped the tip of his tongue into the slit, and swirled experimentally.

This time, James screamed. Choked and muffled by a hand, but definitely a scream. Thomas reached down inside his underwear and closed his fingers around the base of his cock, pushing his own balls down because he didn’t want to come, not yet.

“If you,” James said, shuddering, “keep doing that, Thomas, _I’m_ going to come.”

“Okay,” Thomas said, pulling off. He kicked off his own underwear and pulled off his sweater, leaving only the necklace on, before he crawled back up to the bed, hands and knees on the mattress. Reaching James, he leaned down and kissed the head of that throbbing erection just once more. Then he lifted his head up and grinned out of the corner of his mouth. “We wouldn’t want that.”

“You,” James said. His hand shook as he ran it over his curls. “Thomas, you’re going to _kill_ me.”

“Nuh uh,” Thomas said. He pressed a kiss over James’s thigh, nuzzling over the soft skin and the rougher hairs there. “You have to fuck me first.”

“We…” James licked his lips. “I don’t have lube.”

“Well,” Thomas said, raising an eyebrow as innocently as you can. “Have you checked your nightstand drawer lately?”

Immediately, James’s eyes narrowed. He reached over, pulling out said drawer, and his eyes went almost comically wide at the bottle of lube he found there.

“Told you I wanted this,” Thomas said, pushing himself up to sit back on his haunches. He wiped a forearm over his mouth. “I even planned for it, see?”

James’s eyes were so, so dark. “C’mere, Thomas,” he said, spreading out his arms. When Thomas crawled over to him, settling once more into his lap, he cupped his face with a hand and kissed him again.

Fingers trailed down his back, touch feather-light. Thomas shuddered, panting into James’s mouth.

“Going to stretch you out now, alright?” James murmured, words slightly muffled by the wet sounds of their kissing. “My fingers are going inside you, Thomas. Tell me if you’re uncomfortable, or if you need me to stop.”

“Okay,” Thomas said. He bit his lip, but that wasn’t enough for him to hold onto when James’s finger pushed inside him. His head dropped back, and his eyes fell shut. “More, please?”

“Patience,” James whispered. “You haven’t done this before, so—”

“I have,” Thomas interrupted. His voice tripped in his throat as James started to fuck him with that one finger, thrusting slowly in and out. “I’ve been- been practicing.”

“Practicing,” James repeated.

“Yeah,” Thomas said, shuddering at the tight control he could hear in James’s voice. “In the shower. I can take more than this. You can give me more than this.”

James’s arm tightened around his waist, and Thomas cried out sharply, eyes flying open but seeing nothing as that finger shoved deep inside him, crooking with unerring accuracy against his prostate. His knees trembled from where they were holding his weight, and he shuddered hard, moaning brokenly as James rubbed over the spot, over and over again.

“Gonna kill me,” James muttered in his ear. “You’ve been _practicing_. Christ, Thomas. _Christ_.”

“Want this,” Thomas said, words shattered by the little gasps that his throat was helplessly making. His cheeks and neck felt like someone had lit forest fires beneath his skin. “Want this so much. More, James. More. Please.”

Burying his face into Thomas’s shoulder, James obliged him: the finger drew out, tugging a whine out of Thomas’s throat along with it, and then James was pushing three inside. 

The stretch _burned_. Thomas jerked his head sideways, an incoherent noise escaping him. He could feel James’s knuckles against the rim of his hole, but that was almost entirely drowned out by how much it burned. This was more than he had ever tried by himself – he never dared to go beyond two fingers – and James’s… James’s were thicker, more solid somehow. Thomas could practically feel every bump, every scar, against his insides.

“Slow down,” he pleaded, gasping as James fucked him shallowly. “Deeper, but… slower. Please.”

“Okay,” James sighed out. His hand splayed over the small of Thomas’s back, thumb rubbing tiny circles as his fingers drew back until only the tips were inside Thomas, and pushed in, inch by tiny inch. Thomas shook in his grasp, feeling the harsh fire abating to be replaced by a flame that still burned but felt so good.

“So good,” he heard himself saying. “Your fingers inside me. They feel so much better than my own, James. Just… it feels so right for them to be inside me.” A ragged exhale. “So right.”

“Thomas,” James said, his lips peppering soft little kisses on Thomas’s throat. “Thomas. God, I wish you could see yourself right now. You look so beautiful. My stunning, exquisite Thomas.”

Despite himself, Thomas froze. His body locked up immediately, and he choked on a cry when he felt his hole clench down around James’s fingers, trapping them inside. His head dropped down onto James’s shoulder, hands clenching around thick biceps.

Voices. But no one here except for James. James who was doing his best. James who had regained his control and wouldn’t ever hurt him, not ever again. This felt good, this felt right, and he wasn’t… he wasn’t about to let anything ruin it—

“… want me to stop?” James’s voice came from very far away, but his barely-repressed panic was so clear. “Thomas, do you want me to stop? Tell me. Talk to me, please.”

“No,” Thomas said, and he sobbed hard, just once, when he felt himself clench even harder around James’s fingers. Holding them inside him, somehow. “No, no, not because of this. Just… the word.”

“Word?” James asked. His lips brushed over Thomas’s temple. “Thomas, it’s okay. It’s okay. I can stop.”

“Don’t stop,” Thomas shook his head. “Not the fingers. But just… don’t…” It didn’t make sense but the voices were getting louder and James’s hand on his back was nearly not enough for him to stop his skin from crawling. “Don’t call me pretty or beautiful or- or any of that. Just- just don’t.”

“Okay,” James said. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know,” Thomas said. “This is new. Kind of.” He sniffed once, hard, and wrapped his arm around James’s shoulders. “I want this. I want you. This is stupid.”

“Not stupid,” James refuted immediately. His free hand carded through Thomas’s still-wet curls. “It’s okay.” Nails over his scalp, so gentle and yet a pinprick that centred him. “It’s okay, Thomas. It’s okay. I won’t say that again.”

Slowly, Thomas nodded. He let out a breath, shaking hard, and let out a muffled sound when he felt his insides finally relax. James slipped his fingers out of him, making him ache with emptiness, but James was nuzzling his hair and kissing his hairline and his arms were wrapped tightly around Thomas, so that was okay. 

But there were still voices.

“Say something,” Thomas heard himself beg. “Please, James, say something.”

Nodding, James drew his hand through his hair again. Rhythmic, soothing; Thomas could feel the minute tremors of his body, his hard cock against Thomas’s stomach, but James was controlling himself.

“So brave,” James murmured, his breath ghosting over his ear. “I’ve wanted to say this to you for so long. You’re so brave that it takes my breath away.” He brushed a kiss over the curve of Thomas’s ear. “You forgave me even though I didn’t deserve it. You gave me this even though I don’t deserve it.”

“You do,” Thomas said, unable to help himself. “You do, James, you do.” James had been trying so hard. He had been so patient.

“Shh,” James soothed, thumb rubbing circles on Thomas’s temple. “This is for you. My brave, good boy.” Thomas sobbed hard, just once. “You’ve been doing so much. You’ve been working so hard to make yourself better. So, so brave. My brave boy. I’m filled with so much awe just looking at you and what you’ve accomplished.”

“ _James_ ,” Thomas said. The word tasted like ‘sir’ on his tongue. The voices were fading.

“My good boy,” James repeated. “My brave boy.” His fingers tangled around the necklace, tugging very lightly. “So brave and so good. So inspiring. And mine.”

“Yours,” Thomas gasped. The voices were gone and he could breathe all of a sudden, like there was a knot inside his chest that he never knew existed until now. “I’m yours, James. All yours.”

“I know,” James said. He kissed Thomas’s hair, light and sweet. “I’m so lucky. You chose to be mine despite everything. I’m so, so lucky, my love. My Thomas.” He tugged on the necklace again. “My good, sweet boy.”

Clinging tight again James’s shoulders with both arms, Thomas started to cry. He didn’t know why; just knew that his shoulders were shaking and his body was wreaked with sobs and he was smearing James’s shoulders with his tears.

“Love you so much,” he mumbled. “Love you. Love you, James. Love you, love you, love you.”

Slowly, he lifted his head. His vision was bleary so he tried to wipe his eyes. It didn’t really work, but it didn’t matter – James’s eyes and smile were so bright that he could see them anyway.

Their lips met without needing to ask for permission. James kissed him so slowly, taking his time to map out every inch of his mouth. Thomas moaned, still shaking as more tears slipped from his eyes. They had been through so much, and though he knew that it was his fault, James’s fault, both of their faults… It was still so much and this felt so good that it surely couldn’t be real.

But James was solid against him. His hand on Thomas’s back, in his hair. His cock like a line of flame against Thomas’s thigh. His kiss so gentle, so sweet.

“Take me,” Thomas pleaded when they broke for air. His hands trembled as he brushed them over James’s cheeks. “Please. Fuck me. Make love to me. Whatever words you want to use. But claim me, please?”

“My sweet boy,” James breathed, cupping his cheek and brushing away his tears with a thumb. He took a deep breath. “This breaks the mood a little, but… Thomas, did you get condoms?”

“Why?” Thomas cocked his head. “I haven’t had sex with anyone since you.” And he checked himself, too, a few weeks ago when the dreams started changing. “I know you’re clean, and…”

Lowering his head, he peeked at James beneath his lashes. “You want to claim me, so… come inside me?”

James closed his eyes, head dropping back as he gave Thomas a full-body shudder. “You’re going to _kill_ me, boy,” he growled. He kissed Thomas again when he laughed, swallowing down the high-pitched almost-giggles. “Alright,” he said, voice muffled by their joined lips. “Alright, I’ll claim you. All the way.”

Leaning his forehead against James’s, Thomas nodded. “But let me do this?” he asked, lifting himself up slightly. “Get you inside me?”

“Of course,” James said. “I meant it when I said you do what you want, alright?” His hand stroked over Thomas’s back, stopping at his hip. “Just… let me check something, first.”

He waited for Thomas’s nod before his fingers slipped down. Thomas gasped, biting his lip, when James’s fingers slid inside him again, knuckles-deep.

“Shh,” James kissed his jaw, pulling back out. “There’s not enough lube, darlin’. Just another moment, alright?”

Nodding, Thomas kept his eyes closed. He heard the _click_ of the bottle cap opening, and then another one as it closed. A small noise escaped him when James’s fingers went inside him again, because the lube was _cold_ and he felt hot all over, like he was under the grip of a fever.

“Almost, almost,” James murmured. He fucked Thomas gently, fingers spreading a little inside him to smear the lube all over his insides.

When he pulled out again, Thomas opened his eyes. James took one of his hands and spread out his palm. As Thomas stared, blinking, he poured more lube over his fingers.

“You have to slick me up too,” James told him, voice gentle. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not ever again.”

Oh, right. Thomas had read about this. But all of his knowledge was a little fuzzy. Everything outside of this room, outside of _James_ , was a little fuzzy.

He moved back a little, and reached down. Slowly, carefully, he closed his wet hand around James’s cock. It was still hard, still hot, and he stroked from base to tip, keeping his eyes on James’s face, devouring the sight of him biting his lip as his breath tripped on his throat.

Then he took a deep breath and crawled back closer on his knees. His hand closed around the base of James’s cock, and he threw his head back, getting his curls out of his face as he lined himself up. James’s hands closed around his hips, steady and warm, and Thomas sank down.

Fingers didn’t prepare him for this, not really. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, breath changing into a sob deep in his throat despite himself. The burn was hotter than ever, his muscles protesting with every inch that pushed inside. His knees trembled, failed, and he cried out, a sudden and sharp “AH!” as he sat down hard.

God, he felt so _full_ , his insides clenching around James’s cock until he could feel every ridge, every vein.

“Don’t move,” he gasped out. “Don’t move just yet.”

“Not moving,” James soothed, his lips pressed against Thomas’s temple. His hand was stroking down Thomas’s back, nails scraping over the knobs of his spine. Then lower, lower, until his fingertips were right against where they were joined, Thomas’s entrance stretched wide over James’s cock.

“You feel so good,” James murmured into his ear. “So tight. So hot.” 

“Of course I’m tight,” Thomas said, barely forming words in his head before they escaped out of his mouth. “No one has ever fucked me before, remember?”

James made a strangled noise in his throat. “I was _trying_ ,” he said, voice shaky with laughter and arousal both, “to not remember. Jesus Christ, Thomas. Don’t play with my possessiveness like that.”

Lifting his eyes, Thomas gave him as wry a smile as he could while most of his brain was still screaming over the fact that James was _inside him_. “You like it when I play with your possessiveness,” he teased. “You really, really like it that I’m yours, and here,” he reached back, touching James’s hand as he brushed over the stretched rim of his hole, “has never had a cock but yours. No touch _ever_ but yours, in fact.”

“ _Thomas_ ,” James said. He fell forward, pressing his face into Thomas’s hair. “You’re _not helping_.”

“Don’t wanna help,” Thomas said. He rocked his hips, just a little, and grinned at a wrenching groan he got out of James. “I can’t really move right now,” because his legs felt like jelly, “so you’ll have to move me instead.”

“May I?” James asked, words muffled against Thomas’s neck. “May I move now?”

The burn was starting to subside as his body got used to the feel of having a cock inside him. Part of his brain was still screaming; he ignored it. “Yeah,” he said, closing his eyes and dropping his head back. “Go ahead.”

James’s hands shifted until they were cupping his ass. Thomas cracked an eye open, and watched as James’s arms flexed as he lifted Thomas bodily off him. Then he had to close his eyes again, because the slide of James’s cock out of him was almost too much— 

Then James thrust up. Somehow, he managed to find Thomas’s prostate easily, the head of his cock brushing against the spot. Thomas wasn’t quite sure the kind of noise he made, except that it was _loud_.

Another slide out, then back in. Slow, so slow, the pleasure like a series of tides, tugging him down. Except it was a good sort of drowning, the water was so warm. Like it was light instead of water, the ocean filled with light, like being in the heart of the sun itself without being burnt…

A hand left his ass. Thomas was halfway to whining when he felt that same hand – those familiar fingers, long and thick, and that broad palm – wrap around his cock. He cried out, body jerking. When James pushed inside him again, rocking his hips so his cock rubbed hard against his prostate, Thomas came.

The white took over so suddenly that he didn’t even have a chance to warn James. He was suddenly swept away, and could barely feel it as James continued to stroke him. James’s shoulder was under his cheek, and Thomas’s fingers found his arms again, clawing uselessly as he shuddered through the orgasm.

Face buried in James’s shoulder, Thomas tried to breathe. He had never come so suddenly before. Not ever.

“No,” he dragged out when he felt James start to lift him off. He batted at the nearest limb – an arm. “No, no. Want you to come in me.”

“It’d hurt,” James said softly. “If I fuck you right now, it’d hurt, Thomas. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Wait a bit?” Thomas asked. A part of him – that rational part that had been reading as many things as he could on the Internet for the past year – told him that he was being a brat. “I really, really want you to come inside me, James.”

“Christ,” James breathed. He kissed Thomas’s hair again. “Okay. But…”

“Mm?”

“May I push you down when you’re ready?” James asked, and Thomas could hear the desperate need in his voice despite how hard James was trying to stifle it. “I… Thomas, it’s really, really hard for me to hold onto my control right now.” 

“Yeah,” he said, nuzzling against James’s shoulder. He rocked his hips experimentally, feeling James’s cock brush against his prostate. The pleasure was sharp, a lightning bolt through his nerves, but it felt _good_. He could deal with this. He could more than deal with this.

“You can do it now, actually,” he said. He rocked a little more, moaning at the pleasure. “In fact, go ahead.”

James made a sound, halfway between a growl and a groan, shaped around “Thank God.” One of his hands gripped Thomas’s hips, the other his shoulder, and Thomas felt his back hit the bed before he could register himself moving. His eyes flew open.

“Still okay?” James asked. He was holding himself up with both hands on the mattress, carefully keeping them a distance from Thomas’s body. “Do you need to take it back?”

“No,” Thomas said. James’s eyes were so worried. He brushed a hand over his cheek. “Go ahead. Fuck me. Use me until you come inside me.” He didn’t know where the words were coming from. He seemed to be operating on a completely different level of being ever since he came into this room.

“Go on.”

Something in James’s eyes shifted. He leaned down and kissed Thomas hard, claiming his mouth even as one of his hands lifted off the bed. He sank down on one elbow and lifted Thomas’s hips. Then he started to move.

Thomas threw his head back and _screamed_. The pleasure wasn’t one bolt, but many. He was standing in a lightning storm. His insides felt like they were made of raw nerves as James slammed into him, pounded him into the mattress, and _fucked_ him with a single-minded intensity. All of his focus, all of his desire, fixed upon Thomas. On taking Thomas, claiming him utterly and completely.

“Don’t stop,” he gasped out. “Don’t stop. God, James, oh God, oh God,” the words twisted out of his grasp, and he screamed again as James thrust in him hard enough to move him up the bed.

“Mine,” James snarled into his throat. “Mine, mine, my Thomas, _mine_.” 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Thomas snapped his legs around James’s hips, arms wrapping around broad shoulders as he simply tried to hold on. James’s cock was rubbing incessantly over his prostate, every thrust so hard and so fast that Thomas couldn’t breathe between them. He felt like a doll in James’s arms, a fucktoy for him to use to get off.

It should scare him. It should terrify him. It did. But it was also so _good_. It was so good because he wanted this, he needed this, and James was giving him what he had asked for and he…

“Yours,” he mumbled out between gasps and moans. “Yours, James. Yours, yours. C’mon, c’mon.” He thrust back against James as hard as he could, hips staccato. “Claim me. Take me.”

Lifting himself up, he buried his face into James’s neck, gasping. He wasn’t getting hard again – he _couldn’t_ – but he felt like he was coming again anyway. James was still going so fast, pounding him into the bed that was starting to squeak beneath them, and Thomas couldn’t hold himself up any longer. He felt back onto the bed, tossing his head from side to side as he simply tried to breathe and continue to exist beneath the onslaught.

He didn’t know how long it lasted. It felt like seconds, it felt like hours, or even days. James moving inside him, over and over, while he could do nothing but gasp and moan and claw at the sheets and everything he could reach and yet that was exactly what he wanted—

Somehow, he found the voice to cry out again, sharp and ragged, when he felt James come inside him. A sudden, hot splash of heat, James’s teeth sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. Marking him all over, another claim, and Thomas shuddered hard, feeling like he was going to shake right out of his skin because it was just too much, there was just too much—

James pulling out of him. James’s hands on his thighs. Thomas tried to open his eyes, but he didn’t have the strength. Then James was pulling his legs apart and his _mouth_ was on Thomas’s hole, tongue deep inside him and licking out his come and Thomas’s entire body jerked. It was filthy and it _sounded_ filthy— then he couldn’t hear the obscene slurps anymore, because there was only his own voice in the room, raspy and hoarse, repeating an endless litany of James’s name.

Fingers inside him. Curving, pulling out James’s come even as James continued to lick at the rim of his hole. Thomas couldn’t separate sensations anymore. He was burning from inside out and he felt like he was going to die, he was surely going to die from this, it was too good to be real, so good, he was losing words, losing coherence, he was a body that James was toying with for the sake of his pleasure and he just felt so _good_ …

*

Thomas’s voice petered off to nothing but broken, ragged gasps. Lifting his head, James wiped his mouth absentmindedly with his forearm. He crawled upwards on the bed, using his clean hand to brush Thomas’s tangled curls out of his face.

When he looked into those eyes, James’s breath caught. He cupped Thomas’s face, brushing his thumb over the curve of his cheek. Thomas turned his head, nuzzling his palm, his eyes falling half shut. His breaths were slowly evening out, and his body was entirely lax on the bed. James recognised this, but it couldn’t…

Gently, very gently, he reached down again. He pressed two fingers inside Thomas, crooking them until he found that particular spot. He rubbed against it, slow and gentle, and Thomas gasped. His back arched, he mumbled James’s name, his toes curled, and he sighed, sinking even further into the mattress.

Subspace. He managed to send Thomas into subspace. He hadn’t even _meant_ to. He just wanted to give Thomas as much pleasure as he could, because he was trying to make-believe that it would make up for all of the horrors he had caused.

He kept fucking Thomas slowly with his fingers, rubbing his prostate with every other thrust, keeping his eyes on his boy’s face. Thomas was in deep, all the way down, but when James pulled his fingers, he whined and rubbed his face against the sheets, trying to shake his head.

Like a kitten. James buried his face into those curls, inhaling the scent of Thomas’s coconut shampoo, and wondered just how he got so lucky.

He made to move off the bed. Thomas whined again, flailing around on the bed with his eyes still closed.

“Shhh,” James said, brushing a soft kiss over those full, kiss-swollen lips. “Shhh, Thomas, it’s alright. I’m coming back, darlin’. I’m coming back.”

The words took some time to sink in, but Thomas eventually subsided. His lower lip stuck out into a pout. James chuckled helplessly, his heart swelling, and he leaned down and kissed Thomas again because he wanted to.

“I’m taking care of you, don’t worry,” he assured him.

Then he climbed out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. He took a few of the face towels from the rack, running them under the tap. He tried to warm them between his hands, because he remembered Thomas’s flinch at the chill of the lube, but Thomas winced and tried to wriggle away from the cloth when it touched his skin anyway.

“You have to get clean, darlin’,” James chided, and Thomas stopped while still pouting. He wiped away the dried tears, then down Thomas’s body, cleaning off the flaking come on his stomach and between his thighs. He didn’t stop touching Thomas, cupping his boy’s face and letting him nuzzle his palm.

Drawing back again, he headed back to the bathroom and cleaned himself up there as well. Then, dumping the cloths into the sink, he picked up two cups of mouthwash, a basin, and a cup of water. He put those on the nightstand before climbing back onto the bed, reaching down to tug Thomas closer. He wrapped his boy, the love of his life, in his arms, stroking through his hair as he simply waited for him to surface.

It took half an hour before Thomas’s eyes began to clear. He blinked up to James, still kittenish as he rubbed his face against James’s arm.

“Was that…” he asked, voice hoarse.

Reaching over, James took the cup of water. He pressed it against Thomas’s lips, helping him drink – so he would be able to speak tomorrow – even as he continued to card through thick curls. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “That was subspace, Thomas.”

“It feels fucking good,” Thomas said, sagging back against James’s arms. “It really, really feels so fucking good. Like I’m… floating. Except not really floating. Like I’m in the middle of clouds and they’re all hugging me and everything is soft and grey.” His brows furrowed. 

“You don’t need to describe it to me now,” James said wryly. 

Sipping more water, Thomas shrugged. “It’s going to bother me until I figure out how to describe it properly,” he grumbled. 

“Tomorrow, maybe?” James suggested.

Turning his head, Thomas nuzzled against James’s arm. “Yeah, maybe,” he said, words broken up with his yawn. “Do people always get sleepy afterwards?”

“Some of them,” James nodded, pressing another kiss into Thomas’s hair.

“Well, guess I’m one,” he yawned again. “I don’t wanna get up to brush my teeth.”

“You don’t have to,” James said. Then, before Thomas could protest about dental hygiene, he put down the water and grabbed the mouthwash, offering the cup to him. “Here you go.” 

When Thomas took it, blinking at him, James grabbed the basin. He tried to not grin too widely.

“Seriously,” Thomas said. His shoulders shook, but he gargled the mouthwash and spat, and waited until James had done the same before continuing. “It’s not bloody fair that you get to be my first in everything and yet I’m your first _nothing_.”

James shook his head. Cupping Thomas’s cheek, he leaned in until their foreheads touched. “You’re the first person I’ve _wanted_ ,” he told his boy. “The first person that I feel proud, so damned proud, to be able to bring into subspace. The first person who is completely and wholly mine, and who I want to be mine.” 

His hand slid down Thomas’s side, soothing. “You’re so many of my firsts, Thomas. Just because I know what to do doesn’t mean that you’re not.”

Tilting his head, Thomas kissed him. Or, rather, he pressed his lips against James’s, then opened his eyes and looked at him until James laughed, pushing back and taking Thomas’s mouth properly, tasting mint.

Not a kitten. More like an imp. A handful, in truth, but James wouldn’t have him any other way. If he was any other way, then he would be broken, and James would have been the one who broke him.

He couldn’t live with himself if that happened.

Pushing away the thoughts, he stroked the back of his hand over Thomas’s cheek, feeling the rough rasp of beard. “Hungry?” he asked.

“Not really,” Thomas said, wriggling further up the bed so he could tuck his face into James’s shoulder. James wrapped his arm around his waist, rubbing circles on his hip with his thumb. Thomas rejected neither touch, and James knew he was so damned lucky all over again. “So… how was your day?”

“What?” James blinked.

“I kind of ambushed you right after work with sex,” Thomas said, lips twitching against James’s skin. “This is usually the time when we tell each other about our day, remember?”

Closing his eyes, James laughed. “The case was actually pretty boring,” he said. “It just took a long time because the lawyers really like wrangling over small details.”

“Uh huh,” Thomas said. He was starting to fall asleep.

“Something interesting _did_ happen, though,” James said, continuing to stroke through Thomas’s hair. He had been planning to tell Thomas this over dinner, but, well, they were very distracted. “I met Burr over in his territory today to check over some things with a different case,” because the lawyers involved were under his charge, “and I found someone who is rather interesting.”

“That sounds ominous,” Thomas said. When James raised an eyebrow at him, he laughed. “You rarely find people interesting.”

“True enough,” James shrugged. There was Thomas, of course, from the first time they had met in high school until now. Ben, definitely. Then Lafayette, Burr, and Thomas’s paralegal Catherine in a more limited way. Very few, really.

He frowned, bringing the image of the woman to the fore. Short, half-South Asian and half-white, with a smile like she was hiding a thousand secrets. Her presence had filled out the room despite her small size. “Her name is Dolley Payne.”

“Yeah?” Thomas said. He had given up on trying to keep his eyes open, and was now lying there was his head against James’s chest. “Why is she interesting?”

“You’ll have to find out tomorrow,” James said, helplessly amused. He kissed Thomas’s hair even as he moved down the bed, grabbing at pillows until he had one positioned under his head and the other one beside him in case Thomas decided to move during the night. 

“I’m not moving to my room, by the way,” Thomas said. “You’re my bed from now on.”

Definitely an imp. “Yes, yes,” James said, legs flailing amidst the covers until he could grab at them with his hands without moving Thomas. “Goodnight, Thomas.”

“’Night, James,” Thomas slurred. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” James said. He kissed Thomas’s hair, and then stroked through the curls as he watched Thomas’s breaths even out.

He wasn’t tired, but he wasn’t going to move because Thomas needed his rest; he had been working so hard lately. And he closed his eyes because it would be too creepy for him to watch Thomas sleep. He listened to the sounds of Thomas’s breaths instead, and felt the steady beats of his heart beneath his hands.

Maybe he still didn’t deserve this. But Thomas gave him this, and James knew he would be hurt if he pulled away out of some sort of martyring wish. He was too selfish to push away what Thomas offered anyway.

So he would try to earn this. No matter what he had to do, no matter what happened in the future, he would do his best to earn this.

Turning his head, he pressed his mouth against Thomas’s, and breathed the promise between parted lips.

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be long.
> 
> So. 32 Chapters. ~300k words. That’s approximately _The Fellowship of the Ring_ plus _The Two Towers_. I wrote this is from 20 March to 7 June – 10 weeks – on both days of weekends and approximately two weeknights out of five. I literally spent nearly ALL of what little spare time I have left from my job to write this. This fic has practically devoured my entire life.
> 
> Despite the endings, despite the labels my characters slap onto certain actions, I still tried my best to offer as many perspectives as I can. Is Madison and Jefferson's relationship healthy? IDK. Is Angelica and Sally's relationship okay morally, given that they started when Sally was underaged? IDK. Is Hamilton and Burr's relationship okay given that Hamilton glossed right over Burr's shitty treatment of him before they reached their understanding? IDK. I leave it up to you guys to decide whose side to take, who to like, and who to love. It's up to you. Because that's what it comes down to: a decision. If you can understand all of them and how they work, and still are intensely conflicted about how to judge any one of them, then I've accomplished what I've set out to do with this fic. 
> 
> The very first seed of this fic started off from Burr. I was researching on his historical version, and I found myself very conflicted: I was simultaneously crying over his relationships with his uncle and Paterson, and screaming in rage at him for Manhattan Water Company. Then I got into _Hamilton_ a little bit more, and I fell head over heels for Jefferson. And Daveed says, of Jefferson, that you're supposed to fall in love with this guy watching him, and then, afterwards, feel gross about it.
> 
> And that, like many things Daveed says, got me thinking. It got me researching. Because I've read a lot of books, and with most books - and most fics - authors want you to look at their characters a certain way based on how they’re written. TVTropes calls it 'Protagonist-Centred Morality'. And I got curious about if it's possible for me to write something where my very _intention_ is to create conflict in my readers. A fic where I explain my characters' contexts and psyches that led to their actions _without_ excusing those actions, or being an apologist for the characters. And I realised that I can actually do it in _Hamilton_. This is the first fandom I've found where I genuinely feel as conflicted about the characters as I do about so many people in my life, and that conflict is also based upon morality. And morality is fucking complicated. Real life is messy and there aren't any straight answers. To quote Margaret Atwood, "Context is all." 
> 
> Thank you all for reading. Especially all of you who have commented, or left kudos. I know this fic is very, very discomfiting. I know it's very, very dark. I know it took a long-ass time before things got better. I love all of you to bits for taking a chance with it and sticking by it. There's nothing complicated about that. (Please continue validating me, aha. ♥)
> 
> (By the way, this fic isn't a thought experiment, like the paragraph before last might have implied. A lot of it is drawn from my personal experiences. A lot more is drawn from people I know. That's all I'm going to say. To paraphrase Elena Ferrante, there's no point in revealing the writer. The work should speak for itself.)
> 
> PS: There is one short fic written for this ‘verse, about Madison, Jefferson, and Martha. I’ll also be posting another fic, which is in a fandom that’s directly related and adjacent to this one (if you don’t get what I mean, it’s all good.) Both of which are already complete and just need editing and posting, and that will be definitely be done. 
> 
> Probably going to not be any more, though. I’ll be focusing on original works instead of fanfic for the near future; a collection of 30+ poems, a bunch of short stories and a novel to write. Impetus for this is basically that [Daveed himself called](http://evocating.tumblr.com/post/150199055199/dailydaveeddiggs-dailydaveeddiggs-clipping) something I wrote for him (a book of essays) is well-written _in public during an interview_ , so I am going to work my ass off to deserve getting _that_ from, you know, the guy who is the only writing role model I’ve ever had in my life. So yeah, there will still be fanfic, but not much, and probably nothing for a good while after I’m done posting those things. Catch me on email or Tumblr if you want to talk; both of which are linked in my profile.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @[evocating](evocating.tumblr.com). I'm not there often, but I get email notifs for asks.


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